^oet  lore  ^lapsf 

HANNA  JAGERT 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN 


Richard    G.    Badger,    Publisher,    Boston 


VOLUME  XXIV  WINTER,    1913  NUIIBBR  V 

HANNA  JAGERT 

By  Otto  Erich  Hartleben 

Translated  from  the  German  by  Sarah  Elizabeth  Holmes 

CHARACTERS 

Edward  Jagert,  a  foreman  of  bricklayers. 

Sophie,  his  wife. 

Hanna,  their  daughter. 

Lieschen  Bode,  Mrs.  Jagert's  niece. 

Conrad  Thieme,  compositor. 

Alexander  Koenitz,  doctor  of  medicine,  proprietor  of  chemical  works. 

Baron  Frederick  von  Vernier. 

Baron  Bernhard  von  Vernier,  his  great-nephew. 

Freudenberg,  wine-merchant  and  house-owner. 

Hanna's  Employees. 

Time:     First  act,  March,   1888.     Second  act,  September, 
1890.  Third  act,  March,   1891.  Place:     Beriin. 

ACT  I 

Scene:  The  Jagerts'  sitting-room.  It  has  a  bare  and  sober  look. 
Scrupulous  cleanliness.  The  beds  are  covered  with  white  honeycomb  spreads. 
On  the  wardrobe  are  piles  oj  newspapers.  At  the  back  is  a  canary  bird  in  a 
cage,  over  it  a  clock.  At  the  left,  over  the  sofa,  is  a  large  steel  engraving.  Mrs. 
Sophie  Jagert  is  sitting  alone  at  the  table,  by  the  sofa  on  the  left.  She  has 
drawn  the  lighted  lamp  close  to  her  and  is  industriously  knitting.  Suddenly 
she  pushes  her  work  away  on  the  table  and  listens  to  the  right.  Then  she  shakes 
her  head  and  sighs  heavily.  As  she  is  about  to  take  up  her  work  again,  the  bell 
rings.     She  starts  up  joyfully. 

Sophie. —  At  last!  {She  hurries  down  to  the  right  and  opens  the  door. 
Then  her  voice  is  heard  in  a  tone  of  disappointment.)     Oh!  it  is  you. 

Copyright,  JQIJ,  by  The  Poet  Lore  Company.     All  Rights  Referred. 

369 


f 


370  HANN A  jAcn-Rr 

Li/schfn  Bode  {also  outsidfy  spraking  at  the  same  time). —  Good-evening, 
aunt.  Vcs  —  it  is  1.  If  you  thm't  want  mc,  you  only  need  to  say  so. 
(Laughs.) 

Sophie  {coming  in). —  Come  in,  come!  {Both  enter.  Lieschen  is  a 
pale,  pretty  blonde  of  twenty  years.  Conspicuously  dressed^  light  jacket,  hat 
tvith  feather.) 

Lieschen. —  You  only  need  to  say  so. 

Sophie. —  Come  in  and  take  off — -     Oh,  Lieschen 

Lieschen  {has  taken  off  her  hat  and  hands  it  to  Sophie). —  Well.'' 

Sophie  {stops  as  she  sees  the  hat.  Takes  it  admiringly). —  Oh,  but  that's 
a  fine  hat! 

Lieschen  {while  she  takes  off  her  jacket). —  Of  course!     My  new  one. 

Sophie  {smoothing  the  feather). —  Fine!  Really  very  fine!  Cost  at 
least  —     You  got  it  for  a  present? 

Lieschen. —  Of  course.     What  do  you  think.''     I  didn't  steal  it. 

Sophie  {in  a  melancholy  tone). —  Yes  —  yes!  Lieschen,  do  you  know, 
in  my  time!  a  plain  white  one  with  a  band  —  that  was  all.  No  one  would 
think  of  such  an  affair  as  this.  Only  later  Ed  —  and  then  we  were  already 
engaged. 

Lieschen. —  Oh,  yes  —  in  your  time.     {Sings:  '  That^s  a  long  while  ago.') 

Sophie. —  Well,  come,  sit  down  on  the  sofa. 

(Lieschen  sits  down,  still  humming  the  tune,  at  the  front  corner  of  the  sofa.) 

Sophie  {in  her  former  place,  takes  up  her  knitting  again). —  How  are 
you.^     How  is  your  mother.'' 

Lieschen. —  Oh,  she!  You  know  how  it  is.  Most  of  the  time  she  sits 
up  in  the  armchair.  The  doctor  says  she  ought  to  lie  down.  But  can  any 
one  get  her  to  do  it. ^  And  this  eternal  jawing!  Scolds  the  whole  day!  As 
if  I  could  do  anything  about  it!  But  she  has  a  grudge  against  anyone  who 
is  young  and  healthy  and  full  of  fun.  Every  minute  one  must  stick  at  home 
in  her  room.     That's  no  fun. 

Sophie  {sadly  and  softly). —  The  poor  Wally ! 

Lieschen. —  Oh,  it's  bad  enough.  But  she  doesn't  have  to  be  forever 
harping  upon  it.     So  —  and  so  —  the  same  thing.     I  can't  change  it! 

Sophie  (sighs  deeply). —  Yes  —  yes 

Lieschen. —  But  where's  Hanna.'' 

Sophie  (ready  to  cry). —  Oh  —  that  girl!  Just  see  —  it's  almost  half- 
past  eight  and  still  she  isn't  here!  It  is  as  if  I  were  sitting  on  hot  coals, 
I  am  so  worried  —  oh,  Lieschen,  you  don't  know  yet  —  just  think  —  see 
here.     (She  takes  a  telegram  from  the  table  and  hands  it  to  her.) 

Lieschen  (curious). —  Well,  what's  the  matter."*  (Reads  the  telegram.) 
What  —  what?     Pardoned?     Conrad  pardoned?     Well,  well! 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  371 

Sophie. —  Just  think! 

Lieschen. —  Is  it  possible! 

Sophie. —  And  coming  to-day.  Is  almost  here.  Quarter  past  ten  the 
train  comes.     Any  minute  he  may  come  in  and 

Lieschen. —  He  accepted  it! 

Sophie. —  What.? 

Lieschen. —  The  pardon. 

Sophie. —  Sure.     Why  not.^^ 

Lieschen. —  Well,  well,  well  —  he  with  his  pighead.?  I  should  say  it 
would  be  just  like  him  to  say:  'What!  You  shut  me  up  for  three  years 
and  I've  hardly  been  in  two,  and  now  you  want  me  out.^*  No,  I  won't; 
now  I'll  stay  right  through  to  the  end'  —  that's  the  kind  of  man  he  is! 

Sophie. —  Oh  —  don't  talk!     He  will {Starting  up,  listening  to  the 

right.)     Listen  —  don't  you  hear  something.'' 

Lieschen. —  No,  but  we  can  look.  {She  runs  to  the  door,  at  the  right,  and 
listens  outside.  Sophie  follows.  Lieschen  shuts  the  door  again.)  Nothing 
at  all.     Everything  quiet.     {Both  return  to  their  places.) 

Sophie. —  You  must  know  that  Ed  has  gone  to  the  station  with  a  lot 
of  others.      They  are  going  to  fetch  him.     You  know  how  that  is 

Lieschen  {affecting  a  manner). —  ' No  —  this  happiness  for  —  me.'  {In 
another  tone.)     Well,  well;  at  least  for  himself. 

Sophie. —  For  Hanna!  Think  of  it!  When  it  got  to  be  four  o'clock 
this  afternoon  I  asked  Ed  whether  I  shouldn't  take  it  to  her  where  she 
works.  But  he  said,  'Oh,  leave  it,  we'll  surprise  her  when  she  comes  at 
night.'     Oh,  Lieschen,  I've  cried  hard  for  joy  —  and  now  she  doesn't  come. 

Lieschen. —  Oh,  but  she'll  come.     Only  be  quiet.     It's  a  long  way  from 

Spittelmarkt,  and  then,  who  knows Now  tell  me!     But  see  now  —  do 

you  see  t     What  did  I  always  tell  you  .-*     When  the  Crown  Prince  was  once 
on  the  throne,  then  I  said  we'd  see  things  done!     Was  I  right  or  wasn't  I.'' 

Sophie. —  Yes,  but  Ed  says 

Lieschen. —  No,  no,  no,  aunt !  You  can't  come  it  over  me  with  that.  All 
respect  for  uncle,  but  about  these  things  he  always  goes  with  the  Party, 
and  I  can  just  tell  you,  my  Max,  the  soldier  that  I  got  acquainted  with  at 
Sternecker's,  he  made  it  all  clear  to  me  —  and  you  can  say  whatever  you 
like  —  and  uncle,  too,  he  has  to  paint  everything  black,  that  is  all  a  part 
of  it.     Not  the  least  bit  of  patriotism.     That's  the  way  with  him! 

Sophie. —  Oh,  Lord,  I  haven't  anything  against  it. 

Lieschen. —  Well,  aunt,  now  they'll  get  married  soon.'* 

Sophie  {thoughtfully). —  I  think  so.     Yes.     Hm 

Lieschen. —  Everything  had  gone  so  far.  I  mean  —  the  outfit  and 
so  forth  —  eh .'' 


372  II WW  jACIF.RT 

Sophir. —  \'os,  \  cs.  [Points  to  the  right  at  thr  modrrn  wardrobe^  not  at 
all  in  kf^ping  with  thr  ust  of  the  furniture). —  Tlu-rf.  Mvcrythini»  in  there. 
One  on  top  of  another,  and  everything  so  nicely  marked.  They  must  be 
quite  yellow.  She  has  the  key  —  but  she  hasn't  touched  a  thing  all  these 
two  years. 

Lieschfn. —  Hm.     And  liie  beds.^     Those  you  sold  again.'' 

Sophie   {irritated). —  Sold.''     You're   a Did   you   have   any   idea 

why  they  should  be  sold?     [With  a  movetnent  backward.)     Do  you  want  to 
see  r 

Lieschen. —  Oh,  I'll  take  your  word  for  it.  Well,  then,  they  are  all 
right.  Only  need  to  begin  where  they  left  off.  They've  had  to  wait  long 
enough  —  the  poor  fellow!     (Listening.)     Well,  and  Hanna.'' 

Sophie. —  What  then.^ 

Lieschen. —  Oh  —  I  mean  —  she  has  —  she  has  changed  a  little, 
hasn't  she.' 

Sophie  {sighing). —  Yes!     Oh,  if  she  would  only  come! 

Lieschen. —  Hm  —  yes  —  I  heard  —  about  the  meetings  and  such 
things  —  that  she  didn't  bother  herself  at  all  about  them  any  more.     Hey.'' 

Sophie. —  She  don't  want  to  know  about  anything  any  more.  Ed 
quarrels  with  her  the  whole  time.  Just  think:  Hanna,  who  was  always 
so  —  so  right  in  it  —  wasn't  it  so.'' 

Lieschen. —  She  —  so  she  isn't  any  more  in  the  Party.'' 

Sophie. —  I  don't  know.  She  is  out  of  the  Society.  Everything  has 
stopped,  and  she  never  goes  round  with  her  old  friends  and  acquaintances. 
They  are  all  spiteful  enough  about  her,  as  you  can  imagine. 

Lieschen. —  They  talk  about  her.^     She  loafs  'round,  hey.'* 

Sophie  (loud). —  Oh,  no!     Oh,  no! 

Lieschen. —  Oh,  no.^  I  mean,  she  gets  herself  up  a  little  like  a  lady, 
don't  she.' 

Sophie. —  No,  no.  What  are  you  thinking  of!  She  is  all  for  business! 
And  she  has  got  to  be  something  higher  than  she  was,  you  must  know  — 
something  like  a  manager. 

Lieschen. —  She  is  still  in  the  children's  outfitting  department.'' 

Sophie. —  Yes.  And  what  do  you  suppose!  She  buys  for  them  now  — 
think  of  that!  And  the  patterns  that  she  makes!  They  always  get  the 
most  orders  for  them.  And  she  earns  good  money.  Forty  dollars  a  month! 
Yes,  yes,  my  dear  Lieschen,  that's  something! 

Lieschen. —  Yes,  yes  —  yes  —  especially  with  you."*  And  uncle  is 
always  a  grumbler,  just  the  same  —  when  he  earns  a  lot  himself  and  you 
can  make  it  go  so  far  and  he  has  only  one  child,  and  she  —  do  you  see,  I 
can't  make  it  out  at  all.     {Meekly  confidential.)     Sec  here,  aunt:  mother,  our 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  373 

poor,  good  mother,  she's  always  sitting  in  that  one  place  and  can  hardly 
move  and  can't  earn  a  cent  —  and  Richard  is  such  a  good-for-nothing,  and 
sometimes  we  haven't  a  bite  to  eat  — and  it  is  your  sister,  you  know,  auntie. 
Sophie. —  Oh,  the  poor  Wally.  Yes  —  yes.  But  aren't  you  earning 
anything? 

Lieschen. —  Yes,  of  course!  But  our  Oiler,  the  cursed  fellow,  has  cut 
us  down  again  five  pfennig  a  dozen  on  the  collars!  Really  —  it  doesn't 
pay  to  begin  again!  Auntie!  Don't  you  want  to  lend  us  a  dollar  for  a  day 
or  two.^     Or  we  won't  have  anything  more  to  eat  in  the  house. 

Sophie  {looks  over  at  Lieschen). —  Hm.  I  tell  you.  To-morrow 
morning  I'll  go  over  and  see  what  Wally  needs.     Understand.'* 

Lieschen. —  But,  auntie  —  v^y 

Sophie. —  Why?     Oh,  you  know.     It's  only You  may  forget  it 

again. 

Lieschen. —  What? 

Sophie. —  Yes,  yes.  As  you  did  before.  That  might  happen  — 
Wally  didn't  know. 

Lieschen  {embarrassed,  but  still  bold). —  Oh  — about  what {Silence. 

Lieschen  looks  around,  notices  the  table  with  books  at  the  windozv  on  the  left, 
stands  up  and  goes  there.)     What  is  all  this  lying  around  ? 

Sophie. —  That?  Oh,  those  are  Hanna's  books.  Heavens  know  what 
kind  of  stuif  it  is.     Oh,  dear!     Wherever  is  the  girl! 

Lieschen  {spitefully). —  No  - —  it  can't  be  such  a  strange  thing  that  she's 
late  —  she  has  a  house-key,  anyway. 

Sophie  {immediately  piqued). —  Now  keep  still,  will  you?  When  she 
was  your  age,  she  didn't  go  away  from  the  door,  understand? 

Lieschen. —  So,  so.  But  afterwards,  when  she  went  to  the  meetings? 
And  always  made  her  wise  speeches  that  no  one  could  understand  —  how 
was  it  then?  Well,  then,  you  couldn't  all  the  time  be  running  round  with 
her  —  it  must  have  been  a  little  awkward  for  you  as  her  mother  to  sit  there 
and  hear  her  speeches  and  —  and  —  and  —  not  understand  them  after  all! 
Sophie  {furious). —  Lieschen!  —  now  I  just  don't  lend  you  the  dollar! 
Lieschen.—  Pooh! 

Sophie. —  When  she  is  twenty-seven  years  old  already  and  such  a 
reasonable  person  in  every  way!  Thank  God  we  don't  have  to  have  any 
worry  about  her.  She  isn't  like  —  that  she  goes  with  one  to-day  and 
another  to-morrow,  like  —  other  people. 

Lieschen. —  Well,  you  must  know  about  that. 
Sophie. —  Yes,  I  do  know! 

Lieschen. —  Yes,  yes.  I  know  too  —  the  good  Hanna,  the  good  Hanna! 
I've  heard  that  often  enough  —  as  long    as  I  can    remember:     Take    an 


374  HANNA  JAGKRT 

example  from  licrl  How  happ\  she  makes  her  parents!  So — and  so  — 
and  so  —  pure  virtue  —  ali!  I'll  tell  you  something,  aunt.  I  don't  like 
to  talk  bad  about  anyone  —  least  of  all  my  own  blood  cousin  —  but,  I 
must  tell  you  this  much,  she  can't  fool  me  —  and  she  cooks  with  water,  just 
like  other  people! 

Sophi/T  {beside  lursflf^  stamnwrs). —  Lies 

Lirschrn  {does  not  Ut  her  speak.  Louder). —  And  if  one  of  our  family- 
docs  run  round  with  some  one  —  my  God,  well,  what  of  it;  what  else  is 

there  in  life She  —  she  —  well,  slie  would  rather  ride!     It's  healthier 

for  shoes! 

Soph  ie. —  You 

Lieschen  {interrupting  her  impudently). —  Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  yes  — 
hush  up.  What  I've  seen,  I've  seen!  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  how 
you'd  like  to  have  it!  I  didn't  want  to  tell  you  —  but  when  you  come  at 
me  like  this  —  night  before  last  it  was  —  already  dusk  —  but  by  the 
electric  light  —  I  saw  her  plain  enough;  with  a  gentleman  in  a  carriage  — 
not  in  a  cab  —  and  not  even  a  first-class  cab.  God  forbid  —  in  a  private 
carriage! 

Sophie. —  That's  not  true.     See! 

Lieschen. —  It  is  true.     See! 

Sophie  {screaming). —  No,  that  is  not  true!  You  have  lied.  Our  Hanna 
doesn't  do  that.     {Crying.)     She  would  rather  die.     {Sobs.) 

Lieschen. —  Well,  what  is  there  about  it,  after  all.'*     I 

Sophie  {with  a  sudden  outburst). —  You,  yes,  you  —  you  would  like  to 
have  it  that  she  was  such  a  fly-away  thing  as  you  are,  but  —  no!  Thank 
God!     We   don't   have   to   see   any  such   actions   with   Hanna.     I    know. 

You {There  is  a  ring  at  the  door.)     That's  her!     That's  her  sure! 

{Hurries  to  the  right.)  She'll  take  care  of  that!  She'll  give  it  to  you. 
{Goes  away.) 

Lieschen  {calling  after  her). —  I'll  tell  it  to  her  face!  She  can't  deny 
what  I've  seen  with  my  own  eyes! 

Sophie  {comes  back  with  Hanna,  pulling  her  into  the  room). —  Just 
imagine!  Here  —  that  girl!  I  told  you  how  she  came  here  once  lately 
and  borrowed  a  dollar  'for  her  poor  sick  mother'!  The  next  day  I  go 
there  —  no  dollar  and  no  Lieschen!  Hadn't  been  home  the  whole  night. 
Such  a  baggage!  And  now  to-day  she  comes  again  and  wants  another 
dollar  —  and  when  I  don't  give  it  to  her  right  off  —  for  why  should  I.-* 
Wally  herself  needs  it  —  she  gets  fresh  and  comes  at  me  with  her  little 
tricks  and  wants  to  make  me  mad.  And  do  you  know  what  she  says.'' 
She  saw  you  with  a  gentleman  in  a  carriage,  she  says.  And  not  in  a  cab! 
No,  not  even  a  first-class  cab  —  no  —  imagine,  in  a  private  carriage!    {Pause.) 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  375 

Lieschen  {defiantly). —  With  two  black  horses. 

Sophie. —  The  impudent  girl!     How  she  lies! 

Lieschen  {boldly,  to  Hanna). —  Hey?  Isn't  it  so?  Night  before  last! 
Unter  den  Linden!     Hey? 

Hanna  {tall,  slender,  brunette.  Her  hair  is  simply  dressed  and  parted 
in  the  middle.  A  quiet,  self-possessed  bearing,  firm  walk,  contralto  voice. 
She  is  dressed  plainly,  in  black.  She  has  the  peculiarity,  before  speaking,  of 
first  looking  steadily  and  thoughtfully  at  the  one  to  whom  she  speaks.  To  her 
mother). —  You  wish  me  to  answer  her? 

Lieschen  {scornfully). —  Well  —  well 

Sophie  {at  the  same  time). —  But  —  well  —  of  course! 

Hanna  {looks  steadily  at  Lieschen). —  Yes.  It  is  true.  Last  evening 
I  rode  with  a  gentleman  —  in  his  carriage  —  along  the  Linden.  {She  goes 
by  her  to  the  left,  where  she  takes  off  her  things.) 

Lieschen  {to  Sophie). —  Well,  how  do  /  stand  now? 

Sophie  {fearfully). —  Hanna  —  how  —  how 

Lieschen  {cuttingly). —  How  pleased  Conrad  Thieme  will  be  about  that! 

Hanna. —  At  the  fitting  time  I  shall  write  it  to  him! 

Lieschen  {laughing  wildly). — •  You  can  telephone  it  just  as  well. 

Sophie. —  But,  child,  speak,  speak  then  and  tell  what  it  means  — • 
what  will  Lieschen  think,  what  will  she  take  you  for? 

Hanna. —  Whatever  she  likes.     For  one  like  herself. 

Lieschen  {as  if  she  had  been  given  a  box  on  the  ear,  in  a  rage). —  What? 
How?  For  one  like  me?  If  you  please,  dear  cousin,  will  you  explain  what 
you  mean  by  that!     Yes? 

Hanna  {to  Sophie). —  Mother!     In  Lieschen's  presence  —  let  me 

Lieschen  {cuttingly  interrupting). —  Oh,  so,  yes,  yes  —  I  understand. 
She  can't  fool  me.  We  know  that  kind  of  thing!  But  see!  That  is  just 
what  makes  me  so  furious!  This  aristocratic  way  and  this — ■  she  always 
wants  to  make  herself  out  something  better  and  play  herself  off  for  a  born 
lady!  Anyway,  I  give  myself  out  for  what  I  am,  and  I  don't  go  and  bury 
my  natural  feelings  as  if  it  was  a  crime  to  have  them.  But  just  let  it  go, 
my  little  cousin,  let  it  go.  When  Conrad  comes  now,  I'll  fill  him  full  of  it! 
To-day!     On  the  spot. 

Hanna  {loses  her  previous  self-control).  —  What  —  what  does  that 
mean  ? 

Lieschen  {triumphantly). —  Yes,  yes,  my  little  cousin,  Conrad  Thieme, 
your  betrothed,  Conrad  Thieme!  I'm  happy  enough  to  be  the  first  one  to 
bring  the  glad  news.  Any  minute  he  may  come  in  —  any  minute!  {To 
Sophie.)  See,  aunt,  see;  the  bad  conscience!  You  don't  like  that  — 
hey?     You  wouldn't  have  pardoned  him  —  what?     You'd  have  let  him 


376  HANNA  JAGKRT 

sit  there  and  niopo  anotluT  Near?  ^'cs  — oh,\cs!  ridingout  is  such  a  fine 
thinj!.  such  a  fine  thing!     Hut  it  will  come  to  daylight. 

llanna  (Jrarfully,  in  a  low  tone).-  Mother  —  is  that  —  true? 

(Sophie  nods  sadly  and  watches  her.     Hanna  shrinks.) 

Sophie  (frighttned,  screaming  out).- —  Hanna! 

Lieschen. —  Vcs,  yes!  "^'ou  can  believe  what  1  say  to  you — 'un- 
pleasant'—  what?     * Es  ist  im  Ltben  haesslich  eingerichtet.' 

Sophir. —  They  must  have  come  long  ago.  Wc  —  wanted  to  surprise 
you. 

Lieschen  (laughs^  gets  ready  to  go.  Hanna  reaches  also  after  her  things). — 
Tlien  I  must 

Sophie  (breaking  into  sobs). —  Oh,  my  God,  my  God.  {Lets  herself  fall 
onto  a  chair.  Hanna  remains  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  stage.,  struggling 
with  herself.     She  looks  at  Lieschen  zvith  an  expression  full  of  contempt.) 

Lieschen  {drawing  back  under  this  look). —  Well,  now  I  can  go.  Now 
the  story  is  getting  too  sensational  for  me.  I  won't  disturb  the  home- 
coming. I  only  want  to  say,  those  who  live  in  glass  houses  shouldn't 
throw  stones.  Pah!  {No  one  answers  her.  She  goes  out  at  the  right. 
Pause.) 

Hanna  {comes  slowly  to  her  weeping  mother  and  lays  her  right  hand  on 
her  shoulder). —  Mother.  Dear  mother  —  don't  cry  —  I  know  —  what  I 
have  done.  And  I  knew  it  —  when  I  did  it.  I  regret  nothing.  I  can 
vindicate  myself  entirely  —  to  myself.  I  hope  I  can  satisfy  you  also,  only  — 
only  now  —  after  the  tone  that  Lieschen  has  taken  —  I  must  first  —  find 
myself.  And  then  —  there  is  no  time  now  to  explain  it  all  to  you.  {Urgently.) 
Mother,  dear  mother,  I  beg  you,  let  me  keep  away  from  him  this  first 
evening  —  let  me!  It  is  better.  (Sophie  looks  up  at  her  with  a  searching, 
questioning  gaze.  Hanna  kneels,  full  of  anxiety.)  Oh!  —  don't  thirik 
badly  of  me,  mother!  Don't  think  what  is  not  so  about  me!  You  have 
always  trusted  me  —  always 

Sophie. —  Yes  —  always  —  till  to-day. 

Hanna. —  Mother!  In  God's  name!  Don't  speak  so!  Don't  speak 
so!     If  you  were  to  make  me  —  regret  —  mother! 

Sophie  {springs  up). —  Listen!  Aren't  they  coming?  Go  to  the  door, 
go! 

Hanna  (runs  to  the  right  and  listens.  One  hears  a  door  shut  outside). — 
No.  Nothing.  It  was  below  us.  Everything  is  quiet.  There  is  still 
time. 

Sophie. —  Still  —  time? 

Hanna. —  Yes.  You  said  Aunt  Wally  was  worse.  I  must  watch 
by  her.     Afterwards,  to-morrow 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  377 

Sophie. —  You  don't  trust  yourself  to  look  at  me  —  and  you  have  a 
good  conscience? 

Hanna. —  Don't  torture  me  so  dreadfully!   {As  if  to  herself.)  Surely 

Yes!     I   have   a   good   conscience.     A  new  one,   perhaps,   but Yes! 

And  this  is  now  the  battle  with  the  old  one.  I  must  fight  that  through 
to  the  end,  or  I  should  be — ■ —  {With  a  dismissing  gesture.)  No!  it  is 
only  —  I  haven't  yet  the  real  courage  —  this  stupid  surprise,  that  one 
couldn't  possibly  expect,  and  besides,  the  rough  way  it  was  told  to  me. 
I  must  only  {with  lowered  voice)  remain  true  to  myself.  {Firmly.)  That 
is  all!  {One  suddenly  hears  a  great  noise  on  the  stairway.  Hanna,  who  has 
just  spoken  the  last  words  with  a  forced  firmness.,  starts  suddenly  and  begins  to 
tremble  with  anxiety.     Outside  many  approaching  footsteps.) 

Sophie. —  Now  —  you  will  have  to  stay.  {With  sad  mockery.)  Or  do 
you  want  to  hide.'' 

Hanna. —  Mother {Oiie  hears  the  outside  door  opening.) 

A  deep  bass  voice. —  Now  once  more.  Our  highly  esteemed  friend  and 
comrade,  the  prisoner,  Conrad  Thieme,  long  may  he  live,  and  again,  long  may 
he  live  —  and  for  the  third  time,  long  m.ay  be  live!     {Laughter,  then  cheers.) 

A  singing  voice. —  'A  son  of  the  people  will  I  be  —  will  I  be  — and 
remain!'     {All  join  in,  roaring.      Then  many.)     Pst!     Pst!     Quiet! 

Conrad^ s  voice. —  Thanks,  comrades,  thanks,  thanks!  But  now  — 
good-bye ! 

Edward's  voice  {interrupting). —  Oh,  but  come  in!  Oh,  what  —  come 
into  the  parlor. 

Several  voices  {i7iterrupted  with  laughter). —  No,  no,  no.  What  would 
your  Hanna  say! 

Conrad's  voice  {interrupting) .—  No,  no.     Besides,  I  am  too 

A  voice  {almost  at  the  same  time). —  Agitated  —  what?     {Laughter.) 

Conrad. —  Well,  then,  good — good-night! 

Many  voices  {talking  together). —  Good-night!  Much  pleasure!  Good- 
night! {They  disappear.  The  hall  door  is  heard  closing.  While  all  this 
has  been  going  on  outside,  the  following  is  tra7ispiring  on  the  stage.  Hanna 
stands,  anxiously  listening.  As  she  hears  Conrad's  voice,  she  flies  in  invol- 
untary fear  to  her  mother,  whispering.)     It  is  he. 

Sophie  {bitterly). —  You  really  have  not  the  right  courage  —  did  you 
hear  that :     '  What  would  your  Hanna  say ! ' 

Hanna  {hastily  collects  herself). —  We  must  go  to  meet  them.  {She- 
struggles  to  recover  self-possession  and  hurries  to  the  door  on  the  right.  When 
she  has  reached  the  center  of  the  stage,  the  door  flies  open.  Conrad  rushes  in. 
Edward  appears  behind  him  in  the  door.  Hanna  remains  standing  where 
she  is.     Sophie  rises  and  goes  toward  the  two.) 


378  HANNA  JAGERT 

Conrad  {with  outstretched  arms  hurries  to  Hanna.  Ecstatically). — • 
Hanna! 

Uanna  {involuntarily  draws  back  a  little.  But  then  she  holds  out  both 
hands  to  him  in  apparent  composure.  Softly). —  Conrad  —  welcome!  wel- 
come!    How  —  what {She  stops.     A  breathless  pause  follows  for  an 

instant.     Conr.\d  holds  Hanna's  hands  fast  and  looks  at  her,  astonished  and 
admiringly.     She  lowers  her  eyes.) 

Sophie  {coming  forward). —  \Vliat  a  pleasure  —  she  means. 

Edward. —  Yes,  yes!  It  is  a  surprise!  Hey?  She  is  not  from  bad 
parents!     {Roars  with  laughter.) 

Conrad  {to  Sophie). —  Oh  —  Mrs.  Jagert!  Well  —  here  you  are  again! 
And  look  so  well  and  healthy  —  just  the  same  old  Airs.  Jagert. 

Sophie. —  Oh,  yes  —  one  grows  old.     But  come. 

Conrad  {joyfully). —  Oh  —  you  won't  understand  me.  Why  should 
you  be  old!  Not  a  trace  of  it!  I  only  mean  unchanged,  quite  unchanged  — 
just  as  you  were  two  years  ago.  {Looks  around).  Here  —  here  every- 
thing is  unchanged.  How  —  Hanna  ?  (Hanna  tries  to  speak  —  is  silent  — 
shakes  her  head.) 

Sophie. —  Oh,  no,  what  do  you  think,  Conrad.  Hanna  has  gotten 
along  much  farther!  Much  farther!  Didn't  she  write  you  about  that? 
She  is,  of  course,  at  Lorenze's,  but 

Edward  {speaking  at  the  same  time). —  Don't  believe  any  such  thing. 
She  is  altogether  —  she  has  become  quite  another  girl,  nobody  understands 
her  any  longer!  Of  course  —  such  a  scholar  as  you  are  —  you  may  ferret 
it  out.  Oh,  yes!  That's  a  great  thing!  But  —  thinks  of  nothing  but  herself 
—  nothing  but  herself,  I  tell  you!  Buys  herself  books  —  goes  to  the  thea- 
ter! The  Party  —  doesn't  go  near  it.  Yes — yes!  Well,  but  come!  First, 
sit  down.  You  must  be  tired  enough.  {Leads  him  to  the  table.)  Here! 
Here  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa!     So.     Will  you  have  something  to  drink. ^ 

Sophie. —  Or  to  eat  ^ 

Conrad  {absently  looks  at  Hanna). —  Thank  you.  I  ate  at  the  station. 
Sit  down  here,  Hans.  (Hanna  sits  down,  silently,  on  a  chair  by  him.  Conrad 
takes  her  hand  and  smooths  it.)     Well.?     Look  at  me  —  is  it  so.'' 

Hanna  {looks  at  him). —  Yes.  About  all  that  —  I  don't  really  believe  in 
it  any  more.     That  is  —  that  we  will  live  to  see  it  through.     See  

Edward  {grumpily). —  Hm?  And  therefore  she  holds  her  hands  in 
her  lap.     A  fine  reason! 

Hanna. —  I  mean  that  I  do  perhaps  much  more,  when  I  — work  on  and 
on  myself 

Edward. —  Yes,  yes.     'One  lives  only  once' —  isn't  that  it.'' 

Hanna. —  The    one    person  —  yes.     And  he  has,   perhaps,  his  worth 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  379 

too.     (Somewhat  quickly.)     For  do  you  know,  this  is  something  I  have  learned 
by  experience :  Mankind  in  general  does  not  become  better  by  gaining  power. 

Conrad. —  Hans!  Do  you  see!  Now  I  recognize  you  again  in  this! 
Always  subtilizing  and  speculating!  Now  I  see,  it  is  not  half  so  bad. 
You  are  still  my  old  downright  good  and  wise  —  tremendously  wise  — 
Hanna  —  isn't  it  so.'' 

Sophie. —  Oh,  Conrad,  see  now,  the  great  thing  is  only  this.  There 
was  so  much  to  make  her  angry.  You  know.  Such  vulgar  things  were 
always  being  said  —  well,  I  can't  blame  her  for  it. 

Edward. —  Oh,  nonsense! 

Conrad  {to  Hanna). —  Really.'' 

Hanna. —  Yes  —  just  let  me  speak.  See,  when  one  is  going  on  very 
fast  —  anywhere,  with  a  definite  end  in  view,  that  is  quite  near  —  or  at 
least  one  believes  it  is  quite  near  —  then  one  doesn't  think  much  about  the 
road  —  one  —  goes  straight  on  fast.  But  if,  all  at  once,  one  notices  or 
finds  out  that  —  the  end  is  not  at  all  near  —  it  is  very  far,  miles  away  — 
or  —  perhaps  there  is  not  any  end.''  —  then,  do  you  see,  then  —  then  one 
suddenly  begins  to  think  about  the  road  that  one  is  traveling.  And  if  one 
finds  that  it  is  dirty  —  well!—  And  yet,  you  are,  in  a  way,  quite  right, 
I  have  surely  remained  the  same  as  before,  only 

Conrad. —  Well .'' 

Hanna. —  I  mean,  when  one  forms  the  habit  of  reflecting  about  every- 
thing for  one's  self 

Edward. —  Yes,  yes.  There  you  have  it!  That's  the  great  height! 
*0f  reflecting  about  everything  for  one's  self!'  No,  I  thank  you!  If 
everyone  was  to  do  that  —  we  should  have  a  nice  mess  of  it! 

Conrad. —  But  let  her  say  what  she  has  in  her  mind.  Now.-*  Now 
then,  what  is  it,  then,  when  one  forms  the  habit.'' 

Hanna. —  Then  —  well,  then  one  quickly  comes  to  new  points  of  view  — 
about 

Conrad. — ■  About  what.'' 

Hanna. —  About  everything.     About  the  whole  of  life  —  and  so 

{Confused.) 

Conrad. —  But  —  there  are  also  things,  I  think,  that  —  well,  that 
are  not  'points  of  view' —  isn't  that  so.'' 

Hanna  {looks  in  his  face.     After  thinking  a  little). —  No. 

(Conrad  is  about  to  speak,  but  stops,  disconcerted.) 

Edward. —  Oh,  just  stop.  You  could  always  talk  wise  enough!  I 
don't  see  why  you  had  to  say  a  lot  of  uncomfortable  things  right  off"  the 
first  minute.  {To  Conrad.)  Come  here!  {He  puts  the  sofa  opposite  the 
table.     He  motions  to  Conrad  to  get  up  and  stand  by  him.) 


380  HANNA  JACKRl' 

Conrad  {tvhilr  he  obeys). —  What  sliall  I  do? 

Eduard  {lays  his  right  hand  on  Conrad's  shoulder  and  points  :vith  the 
left  to  the  steel  engraving,  a  life-size  portrait  of  Lassalle). —  See !  [Pathetically.) 
Your  household  furniture! 

Conrad  (delighted). —  Really!     There  it  hangs! 

Eduard. —  That  was  all  you  had.     (Hanna  attempts  to  go  away.) 

Sophie. —  Hanna,  light  it  up  again.     (Hanna  holds  the  lamp  up  high. ) 

Conrad. —  And  my  household  furniture  seems  to  have  also  a  new  frame. 

Eduard. —  Yes,  of  course.  The  old  one  wouldn't  do  at  all.  But  this 
is  fine,  isn't  it.'' 

Conrad. —  \  ery ^Hanna  puts  the  lamp  down  again.) 

Edward. —  In  Pioetzensee  you  didn't  have  any  Lassalle  hanging  on 
the  wall,  did  you.^  Yes,  yes!  They're  queer  about  that.  They  haven't 
any  idea  of  what  a  real  ornament  is  in  a  room.  That  is  something  one  can 
have  only  at  home  —  by  the  mother. 

Conrad. —  Yes,  of  course  —  at  home.  (He  takes  Edward's  hand 
gratefully  and  presses  it.  Softly.)  At  home.  (Sighs.)  But,  Hanna,  shall 
I  say  something  to  you.''     I  can  hardly  believe  it.     I  —  can  hardly   feel 

myself  —  so  really  at  home  —  until  you  —  first  —  give  me  a  kiss  again 

(^s  Hanna  makes  a  sudden  movement  of  alarm.)  Hm }  What  do  you  mean  ? 
(Sophie  comes  near  and  wishes  to  speak.  But  at  a  questioning  look  from 
Conrad  she  remains  silent.  Hanna  walks  slowly  nearer  with  downcast  eyes. 
Silently  she  offers  herself  to  him.) 

Conrad  (has  been  watching  her  in  breathless  suspense.  Sudde7ily  aloud 
joyfully). —  Hanna!  (He  embraces  her  passionately  and  kisses  her.)  You  — 
oh  you !     Yes,  you  are  the  same  —  my  Hanna,  my  —  my 

Hanna  (in  his  stormy  embrace^  becomes  aware  of  her  moral  cowardice. 
In  intense  shame  and  agitation  she  forcibly  frees  herself  from  him.  Pant- 
^^S)- —  Let  me  alone  —  let  me (Hurries  away  from  the  room.) 

Conrad  (remains  standing,  transfixed  with  ast07iishment,  gazes  after  her, 
and  then  questioningly  at  the  others.  Hoarsely). —  What  —  what  does  it 
mean.' 

Edward  (coarsely). —  If  I  know  —  what  she  has  in  her  skull!  I  say  — 
no  one  can  tell  anything  about  her.  Hysterical  woman!  (Points  to  his 
head.)  Here!  Understand.^  She  must  be  married.  It's  the  best  way. 
(His  anger  increases.  He  goes  through  the  room.  Sophie  busies  herself, 
uneasily.)  But  let  it  be!  We'll  soon  bring  her  to  reason!  The  devil! 
What  such  a  woman  can  take  into  her  head!  (To  Sophie,  sharply.)  Call 
her  in! 

Sophie  (pleadingly). —  Oh,  Ed,  won't  you  —  let  it  all  alone  now.? 
There's  surely  something  the  matter  with  her. 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  381 

Edward. —  Call  her  in,  I  say!  It's  rude  —  to  run  away  so.  No  manners! 
(Sophie  goes  hesitatingly  toward  the  door  at  the  back.) 

Conrad. —  No,  but  —  if  your  wife  thinks  we  had  better  not  worry 
her  this  time (Sophie  remains  standing  near  the  door.)  I  mean  per- 
haps she  is  so  surprised,  so  —  her  nerves 

Edward  {flaring  up,  sneeringly,  raging). —  Nerves  ?  {Imperiously  waving 
his  hand  toward  the  door.  Sophie  goes  away.  Edward,  going  through  the 
room.)  No,  my  young  fellow!  That  does  not  go,  here]  That's  women 
folks'  muttering!  Such  things  haven't  been  brought  in  here  yet.  Here 
they  have  to  obey,  do  you  understand!  To  obey  —  and  that's  the  end  of 
it!  But  sit  down!  {With  an  involuntarily  rough  movement  he  places  a  chair 
and  sits  dow7i.     fills  a  short  pipe  for  himself.     Pause.) 

Conrad. —  How  much  —  does  Hanna  earn  now? 

Edward. —  Oh  —  and  suppose  she  earned  a  thousand  dollars.  Such 
ideas!  Oh,  I  know!  I  know!  you're  another  like  her.  Like  Wilke  —  a 
lot  of  silly  talk  going  on  about  the  e-man-ci-pa-tion  of  woman!  Yes  — 
stuff!  I'd  like  to  know  what  that  has  to  do  with  the  workingmen's  move- 
ment. It  has  just  this  one  thing  to  do  about  it;  women  lower  the  wages. 
Pah!     What  are  the  women  to  us! 

Conrad. —  Well,  but  listen  once 

Edward.—  No,  /  won't  have  any  of  that  here.  Afterwards,  when 
you've  got  so  far  as  to  have  Hanna  for  a  wife  —  well,  then  it  can  go  as  it 
does  at  Parson  Assman's  —  then  she  can  run  round  in  trousers,  for  all  I 
care.     {Laughs  fiercely  and  lights  his  pipe.)     Pah! 

Conrad. —  Well,  you  know  —  to  me  it  isn't  a  thing  to  joke  about. 

Edward. —  Well,  perhaps  you  think  it  is  tome?  {Pause.  Conrad 
sits  down  behind  the  table.  Edward  sits  in  front.  He  drums  with  his  left 
hand  on  the  table,  turning  away  from  Conrad.) 

Conrad  {rousing  himself  from  his  thoughts,  while  he  strikes  the  table  with 
his  hand). —  She  isn't  a  child  any  longer!  With  her  twenty-seven  years  — 
and  has  in  her  little  finger  more  understanding  than  a  dozen  worthy  com- 
rades in  all  their  thickheads!  Now  then!  Why  should  she  be  ordered 
about  by  you  or  by  me  like  an  apprentice! 

Edward. —  I  am  her  father.     That's  enough. 

Conrad. —  But,  man!  How  can  you  talk  so!  and,  therefore,  you  are 
her  God!  That  doesn't  follow!  That  is  only  a  consequence  of  outrageous, 
economic  conditions!  Of  just  such  conditions  as  we  want  to  do  away  with. 
Don't  you  understand  that.'' 

Edward  {puffing). — ^  No  —  I  don't  understand  anything  of  the  kind. 

Conrad. —  But!  Think  about  it!  See!  Hanna  —  she  can  live  very 
comfortably  —  can't  she!     You  don't  give  her  anything  toward  it.     Well, 


382  HANNA  JAGERT 

then.  So  it  is  only  from  her  j?ood-\viIl,  and  because  she  loves  you  and  is 
accustomed  to  this  life —  otherwise  she  can  go  away  any  hour  —  and  what 
would  you  do  then?  It  is  quite  another  matter  with  the  daughter  of  a 
bourgeois.  She  has  naturally  learned  nothing,  and  has  not  the  least  idea 
of  the  world.  And  if  it  happens  that  no  one  takes  her  and  makes  her  a 
wife  —  and  the  father  closes  his  eyes  —  well,  there  she  sits  with  her  talents 
and  her  piano-playing,  and  can  be  glad  if  she  can  crawl  under  anywhere, 
as  an  old  tabby -r- do  you  see;  with  such  a  one  there  is  still  some  kind  of 
reason  about  it  if  she,  when  she  is  an  old  hag,  must  obey  her  father,  like  a 
recruit.  What  can  she  do.'*  She  must  live!  But  are  those  the  kind  of 
conditions  that  we  want."*  I  should  have  thought  thatthey  were  already  better 
with  us.  For  those  arc  certainly  quite  too  crazy,  quite  too  idiotic  condi- 
tions; and  such  a  girl  everyone  must  pity.  How.?  (Edward  smokes  and  is 
silent.)  You  ought  to  be  glad  that  Hanna  is  such  a  different  kind  of  girl! 
See!  That  is  the  best  thing  about  her,  this  self-reliance;  that  is  just  what 
I  so  tremendously  reverence  about  her!     Yes,  reverence! 

Edzvard  [obdurately). —  No,  thank  you. 

Conrad  (hotly). —  fVhat  then!     But  you  must  see  that! 

Edzvard. —  No  —  that  won't  get  at  all  into  my  damned  old  skull. 

Conrad. —  But 

Ed'juard. —  Yes,  yes  —  you  can  talk  a  long  time  before  you  get  me  to 
like  that.  My  opinion  is  this:  a  family  is  a  family  —  whether  It  is  rich  or 
poor.     Otherwise,  everything  stops.     You  are  a  Nihilist. 

Conrad  (rises). —  So!  And  my  opinion  is  —  tyrannizing  is  tyrannizing, 
whether  by  a  country  squire  —  with  a  dog-whip  —  or  by  a  father  who 
imagines  himself  a  social  Democrat 

Edzc'ard  (rises  also,  exasperated). —  Now  shut  up!  To  the  devil,  that 
is 

Conrad  (angrily). —  Oh,  well,  'to  the  devil.'  You  are  a  Philistine. 
You  are  Philistines,  all  of  you,  but  no  social  Democrats! 

(Edward  speechless  with  fury.) 

Conrad  (in  great  excitement). —  It  is  really  —  it,  it  comes  in  the  nick 
of  time!  right  oiT  on  the  first  day  —  in  the  first  hour  —  when  I'm  hardly 
out  of  the  prison.     The  first  time  I  must  get  my  hands  right  into  it  again  — 

this  miserable  Philistinism,  this,  this Ah!  I  can  tell  you  this,  Jagert, 

if  I  had  known  all  that  I  know  now  five  years  ago,  when  I  first  went 
into  the  movement  —  (one  hears  a  chair  fall  in  the  room  at  the  rear. 
CoN'RAD  stops  and  looks  in  that  direction.  Hanna  enters,  hurriedly.  She 
carries  a  valise,  which  she  puts  on  a  chair.  Sophie  comes  after  her, 
crying.) 

Edward  (has  tried  several  times  to  speak  during  the  last  excited  words  of 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  383 

Conrad.     By  the  sudden  noise  and  entrance  of  Hanna  he  is  again  diverted. 
To  Sophie). —  Well,  what  is  it,  then.'* 

Sophie  (ifnploringly). —  Let  her  go  to  bed,  Ed!  Please!  She  is  sick. 
She  doesn't  know  what  she  wants  to  do,  she  —  she 

Conrad  (who  has  been  watching  Hanna  steadily.  He  goes  nearer  to 
her). —  Hanna  —  you  —  have  something  to  say  to  me. 

Hanna  (very  pale,  but  firm  and  quiet.  She  answers  his  look). —  Yes. 
(Pause.  Hanna  comes  slowly  forward.)  It  was  cowardly  of  me  —  before, 
my  conduct.  As  things  are  now  —  I  must  —  but  believe  me,  it  takes  cour- 
age. That  I  did  not  write  to  you  in  prison  —  you  will  understand  that. 
We  all  thought  you  would  be  there  another  year  and  then  I  would  write 
you  —  not  long  before  you  would  be  free. 

Conrad  (trembling  with  anxiety.  Softly). —  Hanna!  (Hanna  struggles 
for  self-possession.) 

Edward  (strikes  himself  on  the  forehead). —  Am  I  crazy .^  What  the 
devil  is  coming.'* 

Hanna  (with  a  quiet  gesture,  warding  him  off,  fastening  her  look  on 
Conrad). —  Let  me  alone  now,  father!     Do  you  remember,  Conrad,  how 

it,  then (Conrad,  in  sudden  weakness,  has  to  support  himself  by  the 

table.) 

Hanna  (pityingly). —  Oh,  see,  you  are  not  well.     Mother 

Sophie  (lamenting). —  Couldn't  you  leave  it  till  to-morrow.?  Conrad, 
you  have  gone  through  so  much  to-day 

Conrad  (energetically). —  No,  no,  no.  Only  speak.  Say  on,  now, 
then.     What  am  I  to  remember."* 

Hanna  (hesitating). —  About  how  —  it  really  was  then.  I  mean,  how 
it  came  about  —  that  we  —  were  engaged. 

Conrad  (who  with  difficulty  holds  himself  upright,  nervously,  during  what 
follows). —  Oh,  I  know  that,  I  know  that — I  have  had  time,  I  have  had 
opportunity,  also  —  to  think  about  it.     Well.? 

Hanna. —  Then,  when  I  was  all  absorbed  in  the  life  of  the  Party  — 
knew  hardly  anything  else  —  then  you  were  for  me  —  a  comrade.  A 
comrade  for  whom  I  had  the  greatest  honor,  whom  I  revered  as  his  pupil. 
But  —  as  woman 

Conrad. —  But  —  'as  woman'.? 

Hanna. —  Oh,  Conrad,  it  is  so  terribly  hard  —  for  two  people  —  to 
understand  each  other  —  after  years,  when  one  of  them  has  been  growing  — 
and  the  other 

Conrad. —  Has  remained  the  same.     Yes. 

Hanna. —  See.  Even  then  I  never  concealed  from  you  that  I  was 
not  — ^but  I  thought:  I  wasn't  like  you  in  that  way  and  that  I  could  never 


384  HANNA  .|ACn<:RT 

ha\f  such  supiriuc  passiDii.  I  believe  that  now,  too,  and  1  have  always 
brcn  straightforward  toward  you  —  and  toward  myself,  also. 

Conrad. —  ^  es. 

H ati tin.—  W'cW,  we  were  active  workers  together  —  for  the  same 
cause  —  with  the  same  ideals  -  and  also,  under  the  same  yoke.  So  we 
drew  near  together  and  became  used  to  each  other.  And  because  we  had 
so  much  in  common  to  hope  and  fear  and  love  —  we  forgot  there  was  a 
something  else,  a  third  something  —  not  about  ourselves.  Do  you  under- 
stand me.' 

Conrad. —  Yes. 

II anna. —  It  is  necessary,  Conrad,  that  you  understand  me.  See! 
You  were  my  comrade  —  almost  my  ne.xt  man  —  in  all  the  work  that  we 
both  thought  of  as  high  and  holy.  And  how  I  looked  up  to  you,  to  your 
honest,  indomitable  faith  —  yes!  to  that  especially.  That  was  to  me  the 
best  of  all. 

(Cox RAD  farther  of.) 

Hanna  (softly). —  So  —  we  were  engaged. 

Conrad  {convulsively.,  passionately). —  So.''  No!  So  not.  I  not!  I 
quite  certainly  not!  With  me  it  didn't  go  in  any  such  aristocratic  way; 
in  a  much  more  ordinary  way,  much  simpler.  Yes  —  in  just  a  plain  way! 
You  must  really  forgive  it.  I  —  I  fell  in  love  with  you  —  I!  Don't  take 
offence.  That  was  then,  then  —  and  I  haven't  been  able  to  —  been  able 
to  develop  myself —  as  you  have! 

Hanna. —  Conrad!     You 

Edu-ard  {to  Sophie,  who  is  sobbing  softly). —  Stop  that  howling!  Damn 
it  all!     Listen!     You  can  learn  something. 

Conrad  {still  more  nervously). —  But,  of  course,  you — you  are  quite 
above  anything  like  that!  What  was  there  about  that  so  very  special !  A  — 
love  —  a  simple,  natural  feeling  —  God  forbid.  Such  a  thing  you  would 
have  in  common  with  any  other  woman  —  and,  Hanna  —  Hanna  must 
have  something  special.     Hanna  cannot 

Edward  (interrupting). —  See!  See!  There  you  have  it  with  your  self- 
reliance!  Of  course!  Stuck-up!  stuck-up!  and  with  it  all  as  cold  as  a  dog's 
mouth.     There  you  have  it! 

Conrad. —  And  —  and  —  is  that  all,  now.'' 

Hanna  (softly). —  No.  A  year  ago,  perhaps,  I  became  acquainted 
with  a  man.     He  has  made  me,  gradually,  quite  another  kind  of  being. 

And  I  gave  myself  to  him,    body    and    soul.      He (Conrad    breaks 

into  a  loud  laugh,  which  gradually  changes  into  convulsive  weeping.  Hanna, 
without  looking  at  anyone,  as  if  to  herself,  firmly.)  I  did  what  I  must  do. 
I  could  not  do  otherwise. 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  385 

Edward  {grasps  Sophie  by  the  arm  and  shakes  her). —  Did  you  hear,  old 
woman?     Did  you  hear?     Aren't  you  ashamed?     She  is  your  daughter! 

Conrad. —  Betrayed !     To  betray  me,  while  I  —  while  I Oh,  how 

low!  So  that  was  it!  That!  That  was  what  the  wise  words  were  about! 
God  knows  you  have  a  good  head!  That's  how  you  manage  to  justify  to 
yourself  the  meanest  things!  You  can  manage  all  that.  (Roughly.)  Who 
is  it?     What  is  his  name?     Do  I  know  him? 

Hanna. —  No. 

Conrad. —  Well  —  what  is  not,  can  still  be.     Now  then,  what  is  his 


name 


Hanna. —  Koenitz  —  Alexander  Koenitz. 

Conrad. —  And  what  is  he  ? 

Hanna  {hesitating). —  He  —  he  is  a  chemist. 

Conrad. —  Chemist?  Chemist?  Well  —  but,  what,  what  is  that? 
Where  is  he  employed?     In  what  works  or .     Hey? 

Hanna. —  He  —  himself  is  a  proprietor  of  chemical  works. 

Conrad. —  Is  a  proprietor!  {For  a  moment  speechless.  Then,  with  a 
loud,  rough  laugh,  brutally.)  Bravo!  Admirable!  A  proprietor  of  chemical 
works!  That  too!  All  the  money  was  for  that  —  you  have  sold  yourself, 
just  sold  yourself!     Well,  well.     And  the  man  you  were  engaged  to  was 

locked  up.     So  you  went  —  to  them  and,  and  —  earned  a  dowry,  you 

{Rushing  at  her  in  wild  fury.)     You ■    {He  lifts  his  hand  against  her.    She 

looks  quietly  at  him.  He  suddenly  staggers.  Shrieking.)  Edward!  {He 
falls.     Edward  hurries  to  him  and  supports  him.) 

Sophie   {wailing). — Oh,  God,  oh,  God,  oh 

Edward. —  Water,  old  woman.     (Sophie  runs  to  the  rear.) 

Hanna  {has  already  brought  the  decanter  from  the  table  and  is  about  to 
hand  it  to  her  father). —  Here! 

Edward  {pushes  her  back  roughly). —  Go  away,  go  away,  you {He 

knocks  the  decanter  out  of  her  hand  and  it  falls  to  the  floor,  shattered.) 

Sophie  {comes  with  the  hand-basin  and  a  towel.  Ready  to  cry). —  Well, 
well  —  what  he  has  had  to  go  through  with  to-day.  {Sees  the  glass.)  Oh, 
God,  and  what  is  that?     {Looks  for  the  pieces  of  glass.) 

Edward  {lays  a  wet  cloth  on  Conrad's  forehead.  Between  his  teeth). — ■ 
Poor  fellow!     Such  a  strumpet! 

Hanna  {has  dressed  herself  ready  to  go  out  and  taken  the  valise.  Softly, 
almost  humbly). —  Mother,  good-bye.  (Sophie  trembles,  but  does  not  turn 
round.)     Mother 

Edward. —  Out  with  you!  (Sophie  involuntarily  turns,  but  as  Hanna 
comes  toward  her,  she  stretches  both  hands  out  as  if  warding  her  off.) 

Hanna  {in  great  sorrow). —  Mother! 


.W>  HANNA  JAGKRT 

Edward.-     lie  is  coming  to!     Ch)  auay,  I  say! 

Hanna  {in  a  tondess  voter,  vacantly). —  Away!  {Shf  shrinks  convul- 
sivrlx  and  gofs  out  to  thf  right.  As  soon  as  Manna  has  closed  the  door,  Sophie 
breaks  into  violent  ureping.) 

Conrad  {recovering  consciousness).  -  Wiw  ■ — Hin.  VVlio  is  crying 
here  ? 

So  phi/. —  I 

Conrad. —  Where  —  where  is  —  Hanna? 

Edward  {lifting  him  up). —  Gone.  Come!  We  won't  think  about  her 
any  more. 

Conrad  {weakly).--  But  —  but,  I  —  have  still  something  —to  set- 
tle—  with  her.     And  with  him  —  also! 

The  Curtain  Falls 

ACT  II 

Scene:  Hanna's  office.  Through  large  glass  doors  can  be  seen  the  work- 
room, in  a  long  hall,  which  has  windozvs  reaching  to  the  floor  and  looking  out 
at  the  back  upon  the  houses  on  the  street.  The  office  is  furnished  solidly,  but 
without  elegance.  At  the  right  is  a  desk  and  iron  safe;  at  the  left,  in  the  corner ^ 
a  sofa  of  leather  and  a  table.  It  is  already  dark  in  the  front;  the  gas  is  burning 
over  the  desk.  In  the  work-room  also  are  several  gas  flames,  while  at  the  win- 
dows in  the  back  it  is  still  light. 

Bernhard  {ready  to  go,  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  stage.  Constrained). — 
Yes 

Hanna. —  Don't  misunderstand  me,  Mr.  von  Vernier.  I  don't  want 
to  make  you  a  fanatic  about  work.  There  are  enough  of  them.  More  than 
enough.     Only 

Bernhard. —  Please,  Miss  Jagert!  Say  it  right  out!  I'm  a  little  too 
indolent  to  please  you  —  isn't  it  so.'' 

Hanna. —  Yes,  really. 

Bernhard. —  Yes,  yes  —  but  —  what  does  it  matter,  af.ter  all  ? 

Hanna. —  But  it  does  matter.  It  is  not  good  to  have  too  much  time 
to  be  thinking  about  ourselves. 

Bernhard. —  Hm. 

Hanna. —  At  least  I  am  often  very  glad  that  I  can  —  get  away  from 
myself  in  such  a  simple  way.     I  mean  —  from  the  foolish  thoughts. 

Bernhard. —  Oh,  Miss  Jagert,  don't  you  find  that  the  foolish  thought* 
are  always  the  most  beautiful.'' 

Hanna. —  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  that! 

Bernhard. —  Just  what  you  do.  But  you  are  right.  I  feel  that  I  — 
because  I  can't  help  it  —  am  very  presumptious. 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  387 

Hanna. —  How  is  that? 

Bernhard. —  Well,  yes.  Instead  of  earning  my  living  by  my  own  labor, 
1  enrich  myself  like  a  real  dilettante  —  without  trouble  —  at  your  cost. 

Hanna. —  I  did  not  want  to  say  anything  like  that. 

Bernhard. —  But,  nevertheless,  forgive  just  that.  See,  Miss  Jagert, 
you  were,  for  me  —  in  this  respect,  something  entirely  new.  Our  ladies 
take  me  already  for  a  mauvais  sujet  —  and  rightly,  for  I  am  frightfully 
bored  in  their  presence.  Then  I  learned  to  know  you  —  through  the  kind- 
ness of  my  friend,  Koenitz.  You  have  given  me  —  I  beg  pardon !  — ■  a  new 
perspective  —  joyful  possibilities,  of  which  I  had  never  thought  —  with 
all  the  rest  —  a  new  ideal. 

Hanna. —  Oh!  with  all  the  rest.^ 

Bernhard. —  Well,  yes,  I  mean,  with  all  the  pleasure  in  general  of  talking 
with  you.  {Silence.)  Hm,  and  I've  done  that  too  much  again.  {Comes 
nearer  to  her  and  extends  his  hand;  she  rises.)  Miss  Jagert,  forgive  my 
taking  your  time,  remember  me  to  the  doctor,  and  —  to-morrow  evening.'' 

Hanna. —  I  will  tell  him.  Auf  Wiedersehen!  {Goes.  Hanna  sits 
down  at  the  right  and  works.  She  is  dressed  in  black  and^  if  possible,  more 
plainly  than  in  the  first  act.  Twenty  girls  are  employed  in  various  ways  at 
the  two  long  tables  running  parallel  from  the  glass  doors  to  the  windows.  The 
glass  doors  are  closed.  Freudenberg  comes  into  the  work-room  at  the  left,  from 
the  tear.  Stir  among  the  girls.  He  bows  repeatedly,  with  exaggerated  polite- 
ness, and  then  speaks  to  one  of  the  girls.  She  refers  hifn  to  the  cutter.  He 
turns  to  her.  The  cutter  puts  her  work  down  and  comes  forward  through  the 
glass  door.  Following  the  opening  of  the  door,  one  hears  lowered  voices  and  the 
noise  of  several  sewing-machines.) 

Hanna  {absorbed  in  her  work,  without  looking  up). —  Well.^ 

The  cutter  {corning  near,  hesitating). —  Oh,  Miss  Jagert 

Hanna  {looking  up  quietly). —  Well.'' 

The  cutter. — •  Oh,  the  gentleman  from  down-stairs  is  here  —  from  the 
wine-room  —  the  landlord  —  I  always  forget  his  name 

Hanna. —  Freudenberg  is  his  name.     Freudenberg.     Let  him  come  in, 

{The  cutter  goes  away.) 

Freude7iberg  {coming  through  the  middle,  bowing). —  Excuse  me,  Miss 
Jagert  —  good-evening,  good-evening!  Please  excuse  me.  I  thought  you 
had  already  left  off  work.  What  an  industrious  lady  you  are,  Mrs.  Jagert  — 
excuse  me,  Miss  Jagert,  I  meant  to  say  —  excuse  me;  you  understand  me. 

Hanna. —  Wcll.^     You  have  brought  me  the  contract.^ 

Freudenberg. —  I  have  brought  it,  certainly,  certainly.  If  you  will 
be  $o  kind.''     {Hands  her  a  rent  contract.) 

Hanna  {takes  it). —  Please  sit  down. 


388  HAW  A  JACKRT 

Frrud^nh^rg. —  Tliank  you  very  iiuKh.  "\'()ur  humble  servant.  {Srats 
htrruflf.) 

Uanna  {rrads  the-  contract  through).— Wxn  —  Well  —  'The  tenant 
pledges  himself.'  'I'hat  is  thorough!  One  can't  say  less  than  that  of  it. 
And  thirteen  paragraphs  of  house  rules!     You  are  a  strict  householder! 

Frfudtnbfrg. —  Oh  please  —  the  things  are  printed  so.     Cut  and  dried. 

lianna. —  Yes,  yes.  That  is  the  way  it  is.  Now  then  —  eight  hun- 
dred marks.     A  good  deal  of  money  for  the  two  rooms 

Freudi-nberg. —  Don't  say  that.  It  is  three  rooms  —  and  there  is  a 
kitchen  and  a  loft  and  —  everything  that  one  needs.     Don't  say  that. 

Ilanna. —  And  three  flights  of  stairs.  But  one  thing  you  must  sol- 
emnly promise  me,  Mr.  Freudenberg,  if  the  second  story  is  vacated 

Frcudenberg. —  No  one  else  but  you,  Miss  Jagert.  By  God,  you  shall 
have  the  first  chance.     That  you  shall! 

Hanna. —  For  see!  I  should  move  only  because  I  need  more  room 
for  business  and  I  can't  limit  myself  to  the  one  dark  room.  But  naturally 
I  do  not  want  to  go  too  far  from  business  —  or  too  many  stairs  above  it. 

Freudenberg. —  Yes,  yes.  Miss  Jagert,  I  understand  that  perfectly.  I 
will  see,  I  will  see.     You  have  my  word!     (Hanna  writes.)     Miss   Jagert.? 

Hanna. —  Mr.  Freudenberg. 

Freudenberg. —  May  I  tell  you  a  new  joke.'* 

Hanna. —  No!  not  here!  For  God's  sake!  Give  me  the  duplicate 
receipt.     What  can  you  be  thinking  of! 

Freudenberg  {hands  it  to  her — ).  Miss  Jagert,  as  sure  as  I  stand  here, 
you  will  regret  it.  Some  one  else  will  come,  he  will  tell  it  to  you,  and  he 
will  tell  it  badly.  With  me  you  have  a  guarantee.  Ask  Dr.  Koenitz.  He 
knows  me.     He  appreciates  me.     He  will  tell  you 

Hanna. —  Here!  {Hands  him  the  duplicate  receipt.)  Certainly  Dr. 
Koenitz  appreciates  you,  but 

Freudenberg. —  The  Baron  von  Vernier  not  less.  Now  I  beg  you, 
allow  me 

Hanna. —  No!  When  we  are  down-stairs  again  in  the  wine-room. 
Moreover,  now  I  think  of  it,  you  may  send  me  up  ten  bottles  of  the  Leoville. 

Freudenberg. —  You  take  my  breath  away!  Is  it  possible!  The  ex- 
travagance.    Such  giddiness! 

Hanna. —  Oh,  if  you  don't  want  to 

Freudenberg. —  Well,  well,  well;  if  I  don't  want  to!  But  you  must 
pardon  me.  It  is  a  tremendous  thing!  You  order  wine  of  me,  and  such 
wine!  If  I  were  to  speak  out  freely,  one  might  believe  that  you  had  not 
ong  to  live.     Forgive  me! 

Hanna. —  So  —  have  you  been  thinking  me  so  stingy? 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  389 

Freudenberg. —  Stingy,  what  is  that!  It  is  an  ugly  word  for  a  fine 
thing.  But  'exact,'  Miss  Jagert  —  exact!  You  will  not  deny,  if  I  say  you 
are  exact.  Now,  what  is  not  exact,  is  also  not  reliable.  Can  I,  perhaps, 
send  you  anything  else? 

Hanna. —  No,  ten  bottles  Leoville  —  'exact.' 

Freudenberg. —  Miss  Jagert,  don't  make  me  unhappy  for  my  whole 
life;  don't  take  it  wrong,  what  I  said.  Exact,  I  said.  That  is  a  great 
compliment.  So  my  father  said  to  my  mother  and  we  children  had  to 
abide  by  it. 

Hanna. —  Surely.     And  it  did  no  harm  to  your  training. 

A  seamstress  {tall,  pale,  withered  and  stupid-looking,  comes  anxiously 
through  the  middle  of  the  stage.     In  a  tearful  tone) . —  Oh,  Miss 

Hanna. —  What  is  the  trouble,  then ! 

The  seamstress. —  Oh,  Oh  —  I  have  cut  the  buttonholes  in  the  plush 
paletot  {sobbing)  on  the  button  side.     And  the  material  is  so  expensive 

Hanna  {in  a  business-like  way,  coolly,  a  little  angrily). —  Yes  —  but 
you  know  that  —  is  not  my  affair. 

The  seamstress  {imploringly). —  Oh,  Miss,  only  don't  take  it  out  of 
my  wages  this  Saturday.     We  need  the  money  dreadfully. 

Hanna  {looks  at  her,  with  a  passing  smile  on  her  face,  then  quietly). —  Let 
the  cutter  make  a  new  side  for  the  buttons.  The  other  one  can  be  used 
for  the  sleeves.     But  be  more  careful  after  this. 

The  seamstress  {quite  beside  herself  with  gratitude,  breathing  freely 
again). —  Oh,  Miss  —  I  thank  you!     {Goes.) 

Hanna. —  You  see,  this  particular  giddiness  I  indulge  in  to-day  for  the 
first  time. 

Freudenberg  {feelingly). —  Miss  Jagert  —  you  are  offended  with  me. 

Hanna. —  I  am  not  at  all  offended.  You  are  quite  right.  In  fact, 
I  have  thought  of  nothing  else  but  profit  and  saving  these  two  years.  You 
have  been  entirely  mistaken,  if  you  have  thought  it  was  my  real  nature. 
{Smiling.)  Oh,  no!  from  this  day  on  it  will  be  otherwise.  Why  do  you 
look  at  me  like  that.'* 

Freudenberg. —  Forgive  the  look.  But  what  do  you  mean  when  you 
say  'from  this  day  on.^ 

Hanna. —  That  is  a  business  secret. 

Freudenberg. —  Well  —  then  I  know. 

Hanna. —  You  know  t 

Freudenberg. —  Well  —  you  are  going  to  marry!  The  doctor  or  the 
baron.     It  is  one  of  the  two. 

Hanna  {offended). —  So!  Yes,  it  seems  —  you  —  you  divine  every- 
thing with  your  —  innate  delicacy. 


:?90  HANNA  JACERT 

Frfudenhrrg.—   Now  you  arc  angry  with  nie  again? 

Hanna. —  No,  I'm  not  touchy  on  that  point.  But —  1  must  tell  you 
you  are  mistaken  this  time.  No  one  is  thinking  of  marrying.  And  now 
excuse  me.     I  am  busy. 

Frfudtnberg. —  Now  —  see;  you  arf  angry.  And  you  are  right.  Why 
should  I  talk  about  marriage!  Aren't  we  advanced  people.''  Why  should 
one  need  to  marry.''  Wliat  is  the  need  of  marrying.'*  {At  an  indignant 
movfment  of  Hann.a's.)  I  am  going.  (Hanna  looks  at  him  impatiently, 
srvftt'ly.)  I  am  going,  but  I  have  another  mission.  God,  Miss  Jagert, 
when  you  look  at  any  one  like  that,  one's  heart  goes  down  into  one's  boots, 
but  —  good  God,  it  is  so  pleasant  to  be  near  you. 

Hanna. —  Don't  let  that  pleasure  prolong  itself  unreasonably.  Well, 
what  kind  of  a  '  mission '  is  it .' 

Freudenberg. —  An  inner  one. 

Hanna. —  Mr.  Freudenberg! 

FreudenbeTg. —  Don't  be  impatient!  I'll  cut  it  short.  {Quite  volubly.) 
Now,  then;  this  afternoon,  between  three  and  four,  comes  a  man,  a  little, 
old  man,  in  the  wine-room.  He  might  be  a  hundred  years  old  —  no  one 
could  tell.  But  I  give  you  my  word,  he  is  eighty.  When  he  was  through 
with  his  dinner,  he  ordered  a  Pommery,  pushed  his  gold-bowed  glasses 

back  on  his  head,  and  began  to  mutter  before  him,  so {imitates  him) 

do  you  know,  so,  half  out  loud. 

Hanna. —  Yes 

Freudenberg. —  Just  wait.  Now,  then,  so  he  sat.  After  awhile  all 
the  guests  went  away.  He  sat  still  —  went  on  drinking.  When  he  had 
finished  the  first  bottle  he  ordered  another,  do  you  understand,  the  second 
Pommery.  He  called  to  me,  poured  me  out  a  glass  and  asked  about  the 
weather.  So  I  told  him  the  whole  truth  about  it,  according  to  my  honest 
convictions.  But  all  at  once  he  asked  me,  'Tell  me  —  what  kind  of  a  person 
is  it  who  carries  on  a  business  with  clothes  up-stairs.'"  Do  you  know,  he 
said  that  so  —  so  —  in  a  kind  of  way  as  if  it  wasn't  the  thing  to  do,  to  carry 
on  a  business  w'ith  clothes. 

Hanna. —  Well,  what  did  he  want.^ 

Freudenberg. —  He  wanted  to  pump  me!  to  pump  me!  Oh,  but  he 
came  to  just  the  right  one.  I  was  —  as  silent  as  the  grave.  Sir,  I  said, 
if  you  wish  to  find  out  anything  about  Miss  Jagert,  a  lady  for  whom  I  have 
the  highest  esteem,  I  beg  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to  go  up  another  flight  of 
stairs  and  ask  her  yourself.  From  me  you  will  hear  nothing.  And  if  the 
whole  of  Berlin  were  to  gossip  about  her,  my  mouth  remains  clean.  She 
is  my  guest  —  and  pays  me  the  rent  of  two  floors! 

Hanna. —  Well,  was  he  satisfied  with  that.^ 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  391 

Freudenberg. —  God  forbid !  '  Well,  all  right,  I  will  go  up ! '  Like  a 
threat,  do  you  know,  so:  'I  m//goup!'  Too  comical,  I  tell  you.  And  he 
went  on  drinking  all  the  time.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  he  drank  like  one 
who  gets  drunk  to  soften  some  trouble.  Well,  I  had  promised  to  bring 
you  the  contract.  So  I  said,  Sir,  shall  I  announce  you  to  Miss  Jagert."*  I 
am  going  up  now.  'Yes,  you  can  do  that.'  Then  I  wanted  to  know  his 
name  —  but  no!  'Just  say  that  an  old  man  must  speak  to  her.'  Now, 
then.  Miss  Jagert,  *an  old  man  must  speak  to  you!' 

Hanna. —  Eighty,  you  say  .'* 

Freudenberg. —  At  the  very  least.  A  little,  red  nose,  gold-bowed 
glasses.  Special  characteristics:  drinks  Pommery  and  wears  diamonds  — 
so  big ! 

Hanna. —  But  who  can  it  be.''  You  have  really  made  me  quite  curious. 
And  now  you  are  letting  the  old  gentleman  wait  there  all  the  time.''  But 
I  beg  you! 

Freudenberg. —  Yes,  do  you  know.  Miss  Jagert!  When  I  say:  it  is  so 
pleasant  to  be  near  you  —  I  say  the  real  truth.  But,  at  the  same  time,  if 
I  have  been  here  a  little  longer  than  usual  —  I  thought:  the  old  gentleman 
down  there  —  will  order  the  third  bottle  of  Pommery! 

Hanna. —  Ah,  but 

Freudenberg. —  I  am  going.  I  will  send  him  up.  Adieu,  good-bye. 
Good-bye.  Forgive  me !  {Goes  away  through  the  center.  One  hears  the  girls 
laugh  furtively.  Hanna  shakes  her  head,  smiling.,  turns  the  gas  a  little  higher 
and  bends  over  her  work.     The  cutter  comes  in,  timidly.) 

The    cutter. —  Hm  —  oh  —  Miss  —  I     beg,     excuse     a     moment 

(Hanna  turns  to  her.)     I  can't  get  the  new  pattern,  'double-star'  out  from 
the  double-width  goods.     At  least  not  the  seventeen,  as  you  said. 

Hanna. —  Please  —  how  many  meters  in  this  piece,  then  ? 

The  cutter. —  Forty. 

Hanna. —  Then  I  don't  understand.  And  the  same  width  as  the  others. 
It  must  go. 

The  cutter  {shrugging  her  shoulders). —  I  have  tried  everything. 

Hanna. —  Bring  it  here  to  me.  {The  cutter  goes  away.  Hanna, 
again  over  her  work.  The  cutter  returns  with  the  piece  of  goods  and  the 
pattern,  and  remains  standing,  doubtfully.  Hanna,  without  looking  up.) 
Down  there.  In  a  minute.  {The  cutter  lays  the  stuff  down  at  the  left,  on 
the  table  before  the  corner  sofa.  Hanna  goes  to  the  left,  lays  on  the  pattern, 
tries  it  several  times  —  then  quietly.)     So. 

The  cutter  {very  much  embarrassed,  half  aloud). —  Oh,  yes.  It  will  go  so. 
But  excuse  my  disturbing  you.  (Hanna  goes  over  to  the  right  again.  While 
this  has  been  going  on,  the  old  Baron  von  Vernier  has  entered  the  work- 


392  HANNA  JAGERT 

room  at  thf  back.  All  the  girls  start-  at  him.  lie  comes  forward  awkwardly. 
Ore  of  the  girls  opens  the  glass  door  for  him,  so  that  he  meets  the  cutter  re- 
turn ing  with  the  goods.      The  cutter,  uttering  a  low  cry.)     Oh 

llie  old  fernier  {a  little,  hoary,  eighty-year-old  man,  with  heavy,  snotv- 
U'hite  hair.  His  face,  reddened  from  the  zvine-drinking,  betrays  great  emo- 
tional disturbance.  He  wears  gold-bozved  spectacles  with  large  round  glasses. 
He  bows  before  the  cutter). —  I  have  the  honor  —  with  Miss  Jagert. 

The  cutter  (very  much  confused). —  No — there.     {Goes  aivay.) 

Hanna  [stands  at  the  right). —  My  name  is  Jagert. 

The  old  Fernier. —  So,  so.  That  is  she.  Hm.  {Comes  nearer  to  the 
astonished  Hanna.)  So,  so.  Well,  I  must  introduce  myself  to  you.  My 
name  is  \  ernier.  Yes.  I  am  the  great-uncle  of  Baron  Frederic  Bernhard  von 
Vernier.     He  must  be  well  known  to  you. 

Hanna  {joyfully  surprised). —  Oh  —  yes,  oh  yes!  He  is  well  known  to 
me  —  very  well  known. 

The  old  Vernier  {nods). —  'Very  well.' 

Hanna. —  He  is  a  friend  of  Dr.  Koenitz.  But  I  am  very  glad  to  be- 
come acquainted  with  you.  Baron  von  Vernier.  He  —  has  told  us  so  much 
about  you.     {Going  over  to  the  left.)     May  I  beg  you  to  be  seated .'' 

The  old  Vernier  {in  a  ludicrously  morose  tone). —  Thank  you.  Thank 
you  very  much.     If  you  permit  —  I  should  like  to  grow  more  so. 

Hanna. —  But  —  here  in  the  work-room.^     I  beg  of  you. 

The  old  Vernier. —  Oh!  if  you  please,  we  will  be  serious. 

Hanna  {surprised). —  Yes  —  how 

The  old  Vernier. —  We  will  be  serious,  my  young  lady.  May  I  be 
allowed  to  put  a  few  questions  to  you.^ 

Hanna. —  Certainly. 

The  old  Vernier. —  Your  father  was  a  bricklayer.^ 

Hanna  (astonished). —  Yes  —  and  he  is  yet  —  a  foreman  of  bricklayers. 

The  old  Vernier. —  Foreman  of  bricklayers  —  so,  so.  And  your  grand- 
father, if  I  may  ask.''     What  was  he.^ 

Hanna. —  That  I  don't  know. 

The  old  Vernier. —  See!  That  you  don't  know.  That  you  donH 
know!     I  thought  so.  Now,  Miss  Jagert,  you  are  very — modern,  are  you  not? 

Hanna  (thoughtfully). —  Modern.'' 

The  old  Vernier. —  Modern  —  certainly.  And  I  have  no  doubt  that 
you  have  learned  to  look  down  with  great  scorn  on  a  man  who  is  disposed  to 
hold  in  high  esteem  the  class  to  which  he  has  the  honor  to  belong.  Never- 
theless, at  this  moment  I  consider  myself  justified  in  this  degree  of  esteem, 
as  I  know  that  I  have  never  disgraced  my  class  by  arrogance  or  boasting. 
Do  you  know  how  old  the  house  of  the  Verniers  is.'' 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  393 

Hanna  {surprised,  smiling). —  No,  Baron  von  Vernier.  But — 'to 
judge  hy  you (Stops.) 

The  old  Ver7iier. —  How  ? 

Hanna. —  Well,  I  mean:  I  believe  it  is  pretty  old.  But,  if  you  please, 
it   interests   me   very   much   to   learn   definitely   about  it.     One  moment. 

{She  draws  a  dark  portiere  before  the  glass  door.)     So,  please. 

The  old  Vernier. —  The  traditions  of  our  family  reach  back  to  the  year 
nine  hundred  and  eighty. 

Hanna. —  After  the  birth  of  Christ. 

The  old  Vernier. —  Yes.  But  tell  me,  I  can  hardly  imagine  that  it 
really  interests  you 

Hanna. —  Oh,  yes  —  indeed.  Baron  von  Vernier!  Your  great-nephew 
doesn't  speak  of  it  at  all.  You  know  he  always  has  his  artistic  interests. 
We  have  often  asked  him  in  vain  about  these  things. 

The  old  Vernier. —  Hm.  So.  Now  —  our  family  originates  from 
Poitou,  the  old  French  dukedom  on  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  The  first  authentic 
tradition  dates  from  the  year  twelve  hundred  and  eighty.  From  this  year 
twelve  hundred  and  eighty,  the  Verniers  play  their  honorable  role  as 
Marquis,  from  the  right  of  the  first-born,  in  unbroken  genealogical  series, 
in  the  history  of  France.  They  were  called  Marchiones  in  the  older  docu- 
ments. 

Hanna  {in  a  friendly  tone). —  So.^  But,  Baron,  wouldn't  you  rather 
sit  down.''     The  history  of  your  family  goes  so  far  back  —  please! 

The  old  Vernier. —  Yes,  it  is  better.  Thank  you.  {He  sits  down  at  the 
left^  in  the  corner  of  the  sofa.)  Hm.  Now  then  —  in  the  year  sixteen  hun- 
dred and  eighty-five,  Ernst  Olivier  de  Vernier  immigrated  to  the  princi- 
pality of  Lueneburg.  The  old  principal  line  in  France  became  extinct  not 
long  before  that  —  so  that  now  I  and  my  great-nephew,  Frederic  Bernhard, 
are  the  last  and  only  bearers  of  the  name  of  Vernier.     Do  you  understand.? 

Hanna. —  I  —  believe. 

The  old   Vernier. —  But,  do  you  also  understand  what  that   means."* 

What  a  responsibility Excuse  me,  Miss  Jagert,  but  I  think  you  cannot 

understand  that  at  all.  I  —  must  explain  it  to  you.  Hm.  Now,  then. 
Since  we  have  become  settled  in  Hanover  —  you  —  well  know,  that  Wester- 
nach  is  in  the  possession  of  the  family  —  since  then,  almost  universally, 
from  generation  to  generation,  two  brothers  have  represented  the  family: 
'the  two  Verniers,'  as  we  have  been  called  for  more  than  a  century  in  the 
courts  of  the  Guelf.  Of  the  two,  one  was  usually  the  practical  represen- 
tative of  a  race  who  married  and  took  possession  of  the  estate.  The  other 
one  was  in  the  habit  of  resigning  —  either  from  brotherly  sentiment  or 
from  inner  prompting  —  as  I  did.  . 


394  FiANNA   JAGERT 


II anna.       You  liavc 


Th/-  old  f't-rnifr. —  Certainly.  Vos.  There  were  always  some  among 
the  \'erniers  who  found  their  satisfaction  in  artistic  or  literary  pursuits. 
And,  moreover,  I  have  never  been  entertaining  enough  for  the  women. 
Hm.  Well,  then  —  in  our  case  it  was  my  brother  Ernst  who  —  had  two 
splendid  boys.  So  far  everything  went  as  it  should.  Then  came  —  the 
27th  of  June,  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-six.  On  this  day  —  the  Prussians 
shot  the  two  young  Verniers  dead.  We  old  ones  remained  behind  —  with 
us  a  dangerously  ill  \iidow  and  a  little  three-year  old  boy.  That  was 
Bernhard.  Well,  and  him  {tvith  comical  resentment)  —  well,  him  you  know 
well,  Miss  Jagert  — eh.''     Didn't  you  say,  you  knew  him  'very  well.'*' 

Hanna  {surprised^  coolly). —  Yes,  Baron.  But  I  have  already  told 
you  that  he  is  the  friend  of  my  friend,  Dr.  Koenitz.  We  are  often  together  — 
with  him. 

The  old  Vernier. —  So,  so.  Well.  At  all  events  you  will  now  under- 
stand—  what  I  —  intimated  —  before.  How.''  My  great-nephew,  Fred- 
eric Bernhard  is  the  last  —  it  is  for  him  to  continue  the  family.  Do  you 
understand  me.  Miss  Jagert.^ 

Hanna  {disconcerted). —  Yes  —  that  he  will  do. 

The  old  Veryiier. —  How.'*  Yes,  it  is  of  importance  to  me,  Miss  Jagert, 
to  have  you  understand  me  entirely.  It  is  only  on  that  account  that  I  go 
so  into  detail.  See,  my  brother  Ernst  died  the  winter  of  sixty-six.  He 
couldn't  be  blamed  for  that.  Of  the  sons  we  have  never  spoken  again. 
But  of  the  little  nephew  —  Bernhard.     {Is  silent.) 

Hanna  {warmly^  gently). —  Baron  von  Vernier,  he  —  also  loves  you 
very  much. 

The  old  Vernier. —  So,  so.  Hm.  You  are  very  kind,  Miss  Jagert, 
very  kind.  But  if  you  please,  we  will  not  talk  about  him  any  more.  Well, 
now  we  are  two  or  three  generations  farther,  up  to  —  Bernhard.  You  see 
there  was  no  special  calling  for  him  —  I  should  have  had  to  emigrate. 
And,  besides,  he  himself  —  is  a  sensitive  boy,  and  it  is  not  his  nature  to 
plunge  into  active  life. 

Hanna. —  And  you  took  that  into  consideration.^ 

The  old  Vernier. —  Yes.     That  surprises  you.'' 

H anna. —  Oh,  not  from  you,  Baron  von  Vernier,  I  only  think,  that  such 
things  are  rare  —  in  noble  families. 

The  old  Vernier. —  What  we  call  noble,  my  young  lady,  is,  perhaps,  not 
so  essentially  diiTerent  from  what  you  yourself  understand  by  it.  For, 
Miss  Jagert,  the  man  —  begins  first  with  the  baron.  But  —  the  baron  is 
not  born  a  man  —  he  must  also  do  something. 

Hanna  {involuntarily). —  Oh!  that  is  fine! 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  3?5 

The  old  Femur. —  What  —  what  is  fine  ? 

Hanna. —  What  you  just  said.  {Smiling.)  Oh,  I  beg  of  you,  Baron 
von  Vernier,  don't  take  me  for  a  Democrat. 

The  old  Vernier. —  Not  for  —  yes,  but,  Miss  Jagert!  is  not  Democracy, 
then  —  modern  1 

Hanna. —  Modern!     Oh  pshaw! 

The  old  Vernier  {passionately). —  'Oh,  pshaw'  —  bravo!  Modern  is 
the  rabble. 

Hanna  {smiling).— -Yes  —  I  don't  know.  It  only  seems  to  me,  you 
did  not  come  to  me  just  to  demonstrate  a  similarity  in  our  views?  {During 
these  last  words  one  hears  loud  speaking  and  laughing  in  the  work-room. 
Hanna,  suddenly  remembering.)  Oh,  yes,  that  is  so!  {Looks  at  her  watch.) 
Excuse  me,  Baron  von  Vernier,  it  is  past  seven;  my  ladies  want  to  go. 
They  are  already  impatient.  {Going  to  the  glass  door.)  One  moment.  {She 
opens  the  door.  Speaking.)  My  ladies,  it  is  time  to  close.  Miss  Schwartz, 
let  the  things  that  are  finished  be  sent  to  the  storing-place.  T  will  send 
Frederic  to  you.     {She  goes  to  the  left  and  rings.) 

The  cutter  {through  the  middle,  only  half  entering). —  Oh,  Miss  Jagert, 
the  —  the  machine  girl  that  you  engaged  this  morning  —  is  she  coming 
to-m.orrow  .^ 

Hanna.—  Yes. 

The  cutter  {going  away). —  On  account  of  the  cutting  out.  {Goes. 
Outside  some  noise,  shutting  of  the  door.     The  house-servant,  from  the  left.) 

Hanna. —  Frederic,  get  the  things  from  Miss  Schwartz.  They  must 
be  packed  up  to-day.  The  same  address,  London,  {The  house-servant 
goes  away  to  the  rear.  Hanna,  absorbed  in  thought.)  What  —  oh,  yes! 
{Goes  to  the  rear,  calls  out.)  Miss  Schwartz,  one  thing  more,  please  tell  your 
father  that  he  is  to  come  again  to-morrow  afternoon.  I  want  to  have  the 
furniture  ready  for  the  first.     You  won't  forget  it.? 

The  cutter  {from  outside). —  You  may  depend  upon  it.  Miss  Jagert. 

Hanna. —  Now,  good-night,  my  ladies! 

Many  voices. —  Good-night,  Miss  Jagert,  good-night.  (Hanna  comes 
from  the  door.  The  girl  who  cut  the  buttonholes  on  the  button  side,  puts  her 
head  in  at  the  door.)  Miss  Jagert,  I  thank  you  again  very  much.  {Dis- 
appears again,  before  Hanna  has  turned  round  to  her.) 

Hanna. —  That's  all  right.  {The  house-servant  comes  again  through  the 
center  with  a  great  armful  of  children's  clothes  and  goes  out  to  the  left.)  To-day, 
surely! 

The  house-servant  {in  going). —  Certainly!  {J II  this  last  has  been  spoken 
very  quickly.  The  old  Vernier  has  been  eagerly  watching  every  movement  of 
Hanna's.     Shakes  his  head.) 


396  HANNA  JACKRT 

Ilanna. —  Excuse  nic,  Mr.  vcmi  \  iinii  r,  now  1  am  again  at  your  service. 

Tht  old  I'trnifr. —  Dreadful!  Dreadful!  Dreadful!  And  you  do  not 
want  to  be  —  modern?  Tliis  —  this  hurry,  this —  {mimics  the  quick, 
hasty  mov^mftits.)  And  everything  about  this  Berlin!  And  this  Berlin, 
anyhow!  This  plebian  Outraticc,  with  which  everything  is  done  here.  One 
would  think  that  people  imagined  they  ought  to  wear  themselves  out  for 
other  people!  Dreadful!  How  the  boy  can  stand  it!  To  have  to  see  it 
all  the  time!     {Looking  at  Hanna.)      1  nican  Bernhard. 

Ilanna. —  I  thought  so. 

The  old  Vernier. —  So,  so.  Well.'*  But  you  don't  wonder  how  he, 
here,  with  you,  here  in  Berlin  — -endures  it  —  no.^ 

Hanna. —  No.     I  can't  say  that.     He  has  so  much  here 

The  old  Vernier. —  So,  so.  That  you  can't  say.  That  you  can't  say! 
Very  good!     Very  good!     Very  good! 

Hanna  {earnestly). —  Baron  von  Vernier,  I  —  must  —  beg  you  —  to 
disclose  —  the  object  of  your  visit  —  to  tell  me  what  you  wish  of  me.  I 
have  no  inclination  —  to  listen  further  to  things  which  I  —  which  may 
possibly  mean  insults. 

The  old  Vernier  {rising,  also  very  earnestly). —  Miss  Jagert!  The  boy 
shall  not  throw  himself  away!  Do  you  understand?  That  is  what  I  want! 
That  is  what  I  want! 

Hanna  {furious,  hut  controlling  herself). —  So!  And  —  you  come  to  me 
about  it.     To  me!     What  do  you  want  of  me? 

The  old  Vernier. —  I  know  only  too  well,  from  himself,  how  —  it  stands 
with  him.  Ever  since  he  wrote  me  his  first  childish  letter  —  he  has  always 
confided  to  me  everything  that  moved  him.     He 

Hanna  {interrupting  him,  with  cutting  scorn). —  Ah  !  Now  I  understand 
you.  At  last!  You  have  come  to  me  to  declare  to  me  the  love  of  your 
great-nephew!     Isn't  it  so? 

The  old  Vernier  {offended). —  Miss  Jagert 

Hanna  {passionately,  again  interrupting  him). —  Certainly!  Certainly! 
Of  course!  It  can't  be  anything  else.  For  up  to  this  very  day  has  not  one 
word  been  said,  not  one  word,  by  which  he  could  'throw  himself  away.* 
Never,  up  to  this  very  day  have  we  spoken  alone  with  each  other;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  always  in  the  presence  of  Dr.  Koenitz,  my  friend,  to  whom 
I  am  far  too  much  indebted,  to  —  and  if  your  great-nephew  has  written  you 
anything  else,  which  I  cannot  at  all  imagine,  he  has  simply  lied  — simply 
lied!     (Pause.) 

The  old  Vernier. —  My  young  lady,  your  preference  for  strong  words  is, 
perhaps,  also  very  modern,  and  it  may  be  on  that  account  that  it  does  not 
please  me. 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  397 

Hanna. —  Baron  von  Vernier,  you  spoke  of  'throwing  himself  away.' 
And  those  are  also  strong  words. 

The  old  Vernier. —  Yes.  But  —  that  is  also  such  a  matter!  Well, 
let  it  be.  At  all  events  I  can  assure  you  that  my  nephew,  in  any  letter  to 
me,  at  any  time,  never  lied,  either  singly  or  doubly.  It  is  hateful.  Miss 
Jagert!  Hateful,  to  say  such  a  thing.  Think  of  it,  reflect  upon  it!  These 
letters  from  Bernhard  are  for  me,  in  my  solitude  —  my  family,  my  family. 
And  my  family  means  something  to  me. 

Hanna. —  Baron  von  Vernier,  I  said  that  I  could  not  at  all  imagine 
it.     But  what  did  he  write  you,  then {She  stops.     Pause.) 

The  old  Vernier. —  Hm?  Well,  that  can  hardly  interest  you.  When 
you  are  so  indebted  to  Dr.  Koenitz. 

Hanna. —  Yes,  Baron  von  Vernier.  For,  setting  aside  everything  that 
Dr.  Koenitz  has  done  for  me  —  it  is  on  my  account  that  he  has  become  a 
cripple,  because  a  furious  man  believed  that  he  had  a  claim  on  me  and  shot 
him. 

The  old  Vernier. —  Oh!  Hm,  I  am  glad  to  hear  that,  really  glad  to 
hear  it.  Hm.  But  —  Miss  Jagert,  excuse  me,  there  is  also  a  certain  in- 
civility in  saying  that:  now  you  make  a  really  good  impression  on  me. 
You  are,  as  they  say,  a  respectable  woman.  (Hanna  laughs  and  then  sighs.) 
Do  not  laugh.  Miss  Jagert,  I  am  in  earnest.  Well  —  and  perhaps  Bernhard 
did  not  mean  anything  else  in  his  letters  to  me. 

Hanna. —  Probably.  {Half  aloud,  bitterly.)  What  else  should  he 
mean  ? 

The  old  Vernier  {nodding  his  head,  as  if  to  satisfy  himself). —  Certainly  — 
I  think  so  —  I  think  so  —  of  course  —  well  —  but  he  was  always  — even 

as  a  child,  so  —  so  extravagant  in  his  expressions.     Well,  then {He 

interrupts  himself,  goes  straight  to  Hanna  and  grasps  her  hand.)  No,  but 
that  really  delights  me!  {Patting  her  right  hand  with  his  left.)  From  the 
heart!  from  the  heart!  And  if  I  may  inquire:  your  occupation  —  I  mean, 
this  business  in  clothes,  or  whatever  it  is  —  is  it  going  well.^ 

Hanna  {abstracted). — -  Oh,  yes,  thank  you 

The  old  Vernier. —  Hm.  Wonderful!  In  my  time,  there  was  no  such 
thing.     You  are  really — entirely  self-supporting  —  are  you.f" 

Hanna. —  Yes.  I  have  been  fortunate.  I  have  been  able  to  return 
the  money,  which  I  naturally  needed  at  first,  sooner  than  I  expected. 
Just  to-day  —  I  am  free  of  the  debt. 

The  old  Vernier  {stares  at  her). —  Hm.  As  I  said.  Wonderful!  I  can 
evidently  be  quite  easy.     Marvelous. 

Hanna  {inwardly  hurt,  in  a  cold,  ironical  tone). — ■  Certainly.  You  can 
be  quite  easy,  Mr.  von  Vernier.     For  —  although   I  have  now,  through 


398  HANNA  jAGERT 

Tour  kindness,  Uarnt'ci  ilw  gKnli>us  past  history  of  tlic  Vernier  family  —  in 
•pito  of  tliat  you  may  be  assured  tliat  in  me  nothing  —  nothing  is  farther 
than  the  ambition  to  be  Baroness  von  V^ernier!     Do  not  take  offence! 

7'A/'  old  I'frjiier  {breaks  into  a  comfortable  laugh). —  Very  good!  Very 
good!  The  way  you  say  that!  -- capital!  If  the  boy  were  to  hear  that! 
Must  tell  him  sometime  —  ha,  ha!  Well,  at  all  events,  his  fancy  docs  not 
rest  upon  reciprocity.  And  that  is  enough  for  me.  For  I  see,  of  course, 
there  is  no  danger  in  any  other  zaay  —  with  you. 

Ilanna  {bitterly). —  That  is  evident. 

The  old  Fernier. —  Oh,  I  can't  tell  you  at  all,  how  glad  that  makes  me! 
Yes!  Come,  Miss  Jagert,  come  down  to  the  wine-room  with  me.  We  will 
drink  a  glass  together  —  as  token  of  forgiveness  —  and  then  I  will  go  back 
again.     Come,  do  me  the  favor,  my  dear 

Alexaiider  Koenitz  {during  these  last  zvords,  extricates  himself  with 
difficulty  from  the  portiere.  He  has  a  paper  package  under  each  arm,  and  has 
to  push  the  curtains  aside  with  his  elbows.  He  is  a  man  of  thirty-six  years,  rather 
strongly  and  heavily  built,  and  limps  a  little  with  the  right  leg.  Wears  a  cloak 
and  slouch  hat.  Drily). —  Good-evening!  (Hanna  and  the  old  Vernier 
turn  around  suddenly,  surprised.) 

Hanna. —  Oh,  you.  Good-evening.  I  didn't  hear  you  at  all.  {In- 
troducing.)    Dr.  Koenitz,  Baron  von  Vernier,  the  great-uncle  of  our  friend. 

Alexander. —  Ah,  Bernhard's  uncle.'*     I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Baron 

von  \"ernier.     One  moment  —  first {Puts  both  packages  on  the  desk 

at  the  left.)  So.  {Goes  straight  to  Yy-kniy-k  and  holds  out  both  hands.)  That's 
right,  dear  Baron  von  Vernier,  it  is  good  that  you  have  come  to  Berlin! 
Bernhard  must  have  been  so  pleased.  And  we  are  too,  aren't  we.''  {Extends 
the  left  hand  to  Hanna.)  Please  sit  down.  {Indicates  a  chair  for  Vernier, 
and  seats  himself,  afterward  Hanna.  The  old  Vernier,  somewhat  discon- 
certed, does  not  speak.)  Yivnl  Will  you  take  one.''  After  closing  it  is 
allowed  here.  {Offers  his  cigar-case.  Vernier  takes  a  cigar,  while  he  gives 
him  a  light.)  But  it  is  very  kind  of  you.  Baron  von  Vernier  —  that  you 
have  taken  the  trouble  to  come  here,  too.  Hm.  I  can  imagine  that  Bern- 
hard —  but  where  is  he,  then.'*  {Looks  at  them  both.)  Where  is  he.?  He 
leaves  you  alone.?  Where  are  you  to  meet  him,  then.?  Oh,  down-stairs.? 
I  heard  something,  as  I  came  in,  about  going  down  —  didn't  I.?  {Pause. 
Vernier  and  Hanna  both  prepare  to  speak,  but  stop.)     Well,  what  is  it,  then.? 

The  old  Vernier. —  Dr.  Koenitz,  I  sit  there,  as  you  well  know,  so  quite 

alone  in  W^esternach  —  and  there Yes.     My  God,  Dr.  Koenitz,  one 

has  in  the  country  such  mistaken  ideas 

Alexander. —  Yes  —  but,  excuse  me,  what  has  that  to  do  with  Bernhard .? 

The  old  Vernier  {quickly). —  No!     No!     No!     Don't  say  anything  to 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  399 

him.  1  have  committed  a  blunder  —  yes,  I  will  admit  it.  But,  good  God, 
if  I  were  to  lose  any  of  Bernhard's  love  and  trust  by  it  —  that  would  be  too 

hard!     See!     The  couple  of  years  that  I   have  to  live  —  Bernhard 

{He  pauses^  struggling  with  eynotion.) 

Alexander  {in  an  undertone  to  Hanna). —  So  Bernhard  knows  nothing 
of  this?     (Ha'N'NA  shakes  her  head.) 

The  old  Vernier.- — ■  No,  he  knows  nothing  about  it.  He  knows  nothing 
about  it. 

Alexander  {puts  his  hand  to  his  forehead^  meditatively). —  Yes,  but — — 

The  old  Vernier.  —  I  see,  I  see:  I  must  beg  pardon  of  all  three  of  you.  I  had 
pictured  everything  to  myself  so  entirely  differently.  I  didn't  know  — 
above  all  I  didn't  know  that  Miss  Jagert  was  so  indebted  to  you  —  and 

Alexander  {at  the  word  ''indebted^  starts  violently). —  Hm.^  {The  old 
Vernier  stops ^  confused.  Alexander  rises  and  goes  to  the  rights  abstracted.) 
Oh,  is  that  it.''     Is  that  it.^ 

Hanna  {softly^  in  a  tone  of  reproach). —  But  —  Baron  von  Vernier,  how 
can  you  

Alexander    {conquers   himself,    courteously). —  Pardon!     But   that 

Of  course,  if  Miss  Jagert  feels  herself  so  indebted  to  me  —  then  /  must,  on 
that  account,  be  very  much  obliged  to  her.  So  you  feared,  from  Bernhard's 
letters Hm.     (To  Hanna.)     And /A<2/ was  your  answer.^ 

Hanna  {very  much  confused,  in  a  low  tone). —  I  only  spoke  —  super- 
ficially —  to  satisfy  Baron  von  Vernier.  One  —  one  doesn't  like  to  speak 
of  one's  —  deepest  feelings. 

Alexander. —  No.  You  are  right.  {After  a  long  look  at  Hanna,  in 
profound  compassion.)  Poor  Hanna!  {WANiiiA  looks  down.  Pause.  Alex- 
ander, bitterly.)  But  now  you  are  no  longer  troubled.  Baron  von  Vernier."* 
It  was  nothing. 

The  old  Vernier. —  Dear  Dr.  Koenitz,  don't  be  angry  with  me.  It 
seems  to  me  I  have  been  a  real  mischief-maker.  See,  all  my  life,  all  my 
life,  my  temperament  has  played  me  such  tricks.  Afterwards,  as  in  this 
case,  I  see  how  it  is.  {Sighing.)  I  had  really  better  have  remained  at 
home.  Yes.  {Rises  and  grasps  first  Alexander's  and  then  Hanna's  right 
hand.)  But  don't  take  it  ill  of  me!  You  also.  Miss  Jagert!  You  also! 
I  —  will  now  go  back  again  —  where  I  belong,  to  Westernach  —  near  the 

graves  of  our  family.     Good-bye.     Both  of  you.     My  things Oh,  yes, 

I  left  them  down-stairs.  So  once  more,  adieu  —  adieu.  {Already  half 
outside.)  And  better  not  say  anything  to  the  boy!  Do  not  blame  mc! 
Thank  you  very  much.  I  can  do  that  myself.  (Hanna  has  lighted  a  lamp 
and  accompanied  him  through  the  work-room.  Alexander  remains  behind, 
alone.  He  presses  both  hands  to  his  head  and,  for  a  few  moments,  stands 
trembling  in  the  greatest  agitation,  'Indebted'! 


4(X)  HANNA  JAGERT 

(Hanxa  comts  back,  one  hears  her  voice.  Alexander  controls  himself 
tnth  a  sudden  movement  and  goes  to  the  left.  Hanna  comes  in  again  and  goes 
to  the  desk  at  the  right.  In  what  follows  both  avoid  looking  at  each  other,  even 
tvhen  speaking.) 

Alexander  (while  he  lights  his  cigar  again,  in  the  most  indifferent  tone). — 
Wliat  day  is  it?     Friday! 

Hanna  (at  the  same  time). —  Friday.  (Busy  with  the  packages.)  What 
have  you  brought  here? 

Alexander. —  \Vliat  —  oh,  yes  —  the  two  bronzes  that  you  liked  so 
much.  (Sits  dozen.)  I  thought  they  would  perhaps  fit  in  somewhere 
in  your  new,  princely  furnishing  —  in  some  corner. 

Hanna  {takes  out  the  bronzes). —  Ah  —  these.  {With  delight.)  Oh, 
but  that  is  nice  of  you ! 

Alexander. —  Yes  —  yes.  {Murmuring.)  One  must  have  his  monu- 
ment ready  in  time. 

Hanna. —  What? 

Alexander. —  Nothing,  nothing.  Say,  Hanna,  I  have  a  letter  from 
our  would-be  murderer. 

Hanna  {quickly). —  From  Conrad!  Oh,  what  does  he  write?  From 
where  ? 

Alexander. —  From  New  York.  But  he  must  be  already  on  the  way 
to  London.     At  least  he  writes {Takes  the  letter  from  his  case.) 

Hanna  {going  over  to  the  left). —  May  I  read  it? 

Alexander. —  Well  —  not    everything.     Some    of    it    is I'll    tell 

you  the  important  things.    Now,  then It  is  really  a  monster  of  a  letter. 

{Turns  over  the  pages.)  Well,  then,  in  the  beginning  —  exalted  pathos,  'it 
is  for  me  an  inner  necessity,'  and  so  on.  Naturally.  Is  to  him  everything. 
*Yes,  sir,  I  did  shoot  at  you!  No  one  could  blame  me  for  it,  after  what  I 
had  to  endure  at  that  time.  Now,  two  years  after  my  going  away,  during 
which  time  I  have  been  constantly  getting  information  about  you  and 
Hanna  from  various  sources,  an  inner  voice  prompts  me  to  confess  to  you 
that  I  was  led  astray  at  that  time,  blinded  by  passion.'  Blockhead!  As  if 
he  had  ever  not  been  blinded  by  passion.  'Every  passion  becomes  mad- 
ness.' Well,  and  then  he  comes  to  speak  about  the  Party  and  how  he  looks 
at  ever}'thing  differently  now,  you  were  quite  right,  only  the  individual  can 
fight  to-day,  the  individual  —  and  alone.  In  his  way,  and  so  on!  The  old 
story.     {Is  about  to  put  the  letter  back  again.) 

Hanna. —  That  is  all? 

Alexander. —  Yes,  more  or  less.  {Hesitating.)  Some  more  —  foolish 
phrases  about  you.     Silly  declamations 

Hanna. —  But,  Alexander,  you  must  tell  me  about  it.     I  beg  you! 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  401 

Alexander. —  Oh,  God  —  it  is  simple  —  the  same  arrogance  of  conceit 
as  before.  With  it  all  tremendously  good,  dear  fellows  —  these  Atridae  — 
even  if  they  do  sometimes  shoot  one  in  the  bones.  {Running  over  the  letter.) 
Where  is  it,  then?  Here.  Now,  then,  'I  think  of  her  day  and  night.  I 
have  not  yet  settled  the  account  up  with  her!  Perhaps  —  it  will  not  be  neces- 
sary. If  everything  remains  as  it  is,  if  she  continues  her  independent  life, 
by  your  side,  in  free  but  loyal  affection,'  well,  and  so  on!  You  can  imagine. 
Say,  Hans,  you  are  now  twenty-nine  years  old,  aren't  you.''  Do  you 
still  remember  what  I  said  to  you  —  more  than  three  years  ago  — when 
you  made  yourself  believe  —  only  made  yourself  believe  —  that  it  was  your 
mission  —  to  see  to  it  that  —  I  don't  know  —  sometime  —  day  after  to- 
morrow—  people  should  be  happier  than  they  are  to-day.''  Do  you  re- 
member.'' Think  about  it!  I  used  to  say  to  you:  my  good  Hans,  unto 
one's  twenty-fifth  year  —  that  is  line  —  that  can  tend  to  make  us  happy 
and  also  be  genuine.  But  afterwards  —  afterwards  one  becomes  a  Philis- 
tine —  a  man  without  inspiration  in  himself  —  a  kind  of  Epigone  of  his 
youth  —  a  Democrat  of  forty-eight  —  a  representative  to  the  Reichstag,  in 
short,  a  stone  donkey  —  or  one  seeks  new  ideals  —  becomes  perhaps  clear 
in  his  mind  that  he  himself,  also  —  is  here  —  so  to  say!  That  I,  that  you 
also,  as  it  were,  live  —  do  you  understand.''  Live.  {Rises.)  And  then 
if  one  has  a  trace  of  good  conscience  as  a  man  —  I  mean,  only  a  little  am- 
bition to  stand  for  an  individual,  so  that  he  can  venture  to  say  yes  to  him- 
self —  then  one  throws  to  the  devil  the  whole  resignation  nonsense,  all  the 
plaintive  lamentation  over  the  dear  fellow-men  of  the  next  century  and 
says : '/  and  once  more,  /  —  will  be  a  whole  one !  a  whole  one  —  ein  einziger  — 
I  myself.'     {He  hobbles  hastily  through  the  room  and  then  sits  down.) 

Hanna. —  Alexander!  To  hear  you  talk  like  that,  one  would  think 
you  were  the  most  unmitigated  egoist  in  the  world.  And  with  it  all  you 
never,  in  your  own  life 

Alexander. —  Oh,  please,  that  is  a  matter  of  taste.  But  in  certain 
things  it  is  not  only  not  in  good  taste  when  one  thinks  too  much  of  others, 
but  also  —  what  we  have  to  call  wrong.  {In  quite  another  tone,  warm,  heart- 
ful.)  Hanna,  you  do  not  feel  yourself  free  —  not  happy.  (Hanna  begins 
to  speak.  Becomes  silent.)  No,  Hans,  you  are  not  happy.  You  are  not 
happy.  These  whole  two  years  —  do  you  think  I  have  not  felt  it.''  This 
dull,  senseless  working  and  working  the  whole  time  —  did  you  think  me  so 
stupid,  did  you  believe  I  did  not  realize  how  little  that  was  like  you?  How 
little  you  have  been  yourself  all  this  time?  Hanna,  it  does  not  often  happen 
that  we  —  we  egoists  —  declare  ourselves.  That,  also,  would  not  be  to 
our  taste.  But  now.  We  are  on  the  subject  now.  At  least  I.  See,  we 
will  not  hide  it  from  ourselves;  it  has  come  to  be  different  with  us  from  what 


402  IIWXA   I  \(-l<.RT 

we  boliovfd  it  wmild  he.  \\n\\  ii  lias  toiiu-  to  he  sd,  is  hard  to  say  —  and, 
after  all,  it  can  be  all  the  same  to  us  now.  Al  that  time,  when  the  catas- 
trophe, witli  all  its  events  and  stupid  clap-trap  was  over,  my  wound  was 
healed,  and  I  had  again  learned  to  walk  —  when  you  were  established  here, 
and  so  on  —  then  it  iiaturaiU'  siemed  as  if  it  could  and  should  be  as  it  was 
before.     But 

Ilanna  {beseechingly). —  But,  Alexander!  Of  course!  Don't  speak  so! 
How  infinitely  must  I  be {Their  eyes  meet.,  she  is  silent.) 

Alexander  {very  coldly). —  Indebted.  Certainly.  It  may  be,  that  it 
was  just  because  of  that.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  everything  changed.  You 
had  expected  too  much  of  yourself.  Hm.  {Pause.  In  another  tone.) 
But  what  is  the  use  of  talking.^  Let  us  stop.  We  only  torment  ourselves 
by  talking  about  it.  And  we  certainly  were  not  born  to  torment  each 
other.  {Nervously.)  Altogether  we  were  not  born  for  each  other.  That  is 
—  a  mania  for  persecution.  {Pause.  He  sighs.  Then^  in  an  indifferent  tone.) 
Yes,  yes  —  something  occurs  to  me:  first  business  and  then  pleasure.  Didn't 
you  want  to  pay  me  a  thousand  marks  to-day.'' 

Ilanna  {quickly,  goes  to  the  desk). —  Oh,  yes.  I  had  already  written 
the  receipt.  Where  is  it,  thcn.^  During  the  visit  —  Freudenberg  was 
also  up  here.  {She  has  found  the  paper.)  Oh,  here.  Will  you  come  here, 
or  shall  I 

Alexander. —  I  am  coming.     {Goes  to  the  desk.) 

Ilanna. —  The  old  gentleman  inquired  of  him  about  me.  {Hayids  him 
the  pen.)     So,  please.     I  have  the  date  already. 

Alexander  {signs). —  So,  now,  with  that  we  are  even.'* 

Haniia  {stands  by  the  desk,  from  which  she  has  taken  a  thousand-mark 
note). —  Certainly  with  that  I  am {She  is  silent.) 

Alexa7ider  {laughing). —  But,  Hans,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  to-day.^ 
You  don't  speak  out  your  best  thoughts. 

Ilanna  {gives  him  the  note.     Pleadingly,  softly). —  Alexander. 

Alexander. —  No,  no,  that  was  really  a  very  sensible  thought.  With 
that  you  are  altogether —  free  from  me.  {He  puts  away  the  note.)  I  could 
only  wish  that  you  had  the  courage  of  —  of  your  thoughts.  So  the  real 
woman-courage.  That  is  something  special,  woman-courage.  It  is  stupidity 
always  to  talk  about  man's  courage.     Well,  but  now  I  will  go. 

Ilanna. —  Go!     So  suddenly.'' 

Alexander  {putting  on  his  cloak). —  Yes.  I  have  something  to  do. 
Something  important.  A  deed  of  human  friendliness.  Excuse  me  this 
evening.     You  will  be  tired,  too 

Hanyia  (softly,  sadly). —  You  torture  me. 

Alexander    (almost   cheerfully). —  That — is    a    mistake.     Now,    then, 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  403 

adieu,  you  —  you  pupil.  And  have  not  yet  finished  your  lessons.  Be 
ashamed  of  yourself!     Adieu!     (He  holds  out  his  hand.)     Adieu. 

Hanna  {with  downcast  eyes,  grasps  his  right  hand  in  both  of  hers). —  Adieu. 

Alexander  {goes  to  the  door.      There  he  turns  rou?id  and  takes  Hanna's 

head  in  both  hands.     With  deep  feeling). —  Good-bye,  you  —  good-bye 

{He  kisses  her  on  the  forehead.) 

Hanna  {bursting  into  tears). —  But  don't  go  so,  Alexander!  Let  us  talk 
more 

Alexander  {freeing  himself). —  Please,  please- — only  no  pity!  That  I 
decline!  That  does  not  suit  you!  So.  {Once  more  he  reaches  his  hand  to 
her.  She  grasps  it.  He  looks  straight  at  her  and  shakes  her  hand  heartily.) 
So.     {In  a  toneless  voice.)     Good-bye.     {Goes  out  quickly.) 

Hanna  {throws  herself,  sobbing,  into  the  chair  before  the  desk). —  Oh,  I 

{Suddenly  springing  up,  she  calls  loudly). —  Alexander!  {Goes  out.  She  is 
heard  calling  outside.)  Alexander!  {She  comes  back  and  stands  for  a 
moment  breathing  with  difficulty.  Then,  exhausted,  she  goes  to  the  left,  where 
she  sits  down.  She  dries  her  eyes  and  shakes  her  head  thoughtfully.  She  opens 
a  ledger  and  dips  her  pen  in  the  ink.) 

Curtain 

ACT  III 

Scene:  A  room  in  Hanna's  private  apartment.  Part  of  the  furniture  is  the 
same  as  in  the  second  act.  In  the  middle  of  the  room  is  a  large  table  with  high- 
backed  chairs.  Over  this  a  burning  lamp.  In  the  center  of  the  background  is  a 
large  bookcase,  at  the  right  of  this,  the  door  to  the  corridor,  at  the  left,  the  corner 
sofa  with  a  table.  On  the  right  side,  in  front,  is  the  safe;  behind  this  a  stove, 
from  which  comes  the  light  of  a  fire.  On  the  left  side,  in  front,  is  the  desk,  behind 
this  the  door  into  the  next  room.  The  furniture  is  severe  and  solid,  more  like  a 
man's  room.  Dark  portieres  a?id  coverlets.  Hanna,  in  a  black  dress  of 
elegant  simplicity,  is  sitting  in  front,  at  the  center-table,  and  reading  a  letter. 
LiESCHEN  sits  in  a  stiff,  bolt  upright  position,  at  the  right  of  the  center-table. 
She  wears  a  walking-costume  i?i  the  height  of  fashion,  and  looks  round  the  room 
with  a  kind  of  curious  awe. 

Hanna  {lets  the  letter  fall.  With  emotion). —  The  good  mother.  But 
she  doesn't  trust  herself  here  personally. 

Lieschen  {in  an  affected  tone,  from  which  she  drops  only  now  a^id  then).  — 
Oh,  she  would  do  it.  But  you  know  how  your  father  is.  I  never  go  there 
myself,  only  when  I  know  for  sure  he  isn't  there. 

Hanna  {thoughtfully). —  Hm.  To-day,  after  dinner,  she  gave  you  the 
letter.? 

Lieschen. —  Yes,  she  came  to  me  on  purpose.      She  is  so  scared ! 


4(M  HAW  A  jACn-lRT 

llanna  {farnrstly,  without  looking  at  Lieschen). —  Tlie  good  mother. 
Oh,  it  is  iKnliing!  Nothing.  {Rises.)  Sht-  judges  Conrad  wrongly.  I 
will  expect  him. 

Lifschtrn. —  Oh,  Hanna,  lie's  a  great  deal  more  furious  than  he  ever 
was.  Vou  wouldn't  believe  how  he  has  changed.  It's  my  belief  he  has 
taken  to  drinking,  all  by  himself,  in  America  or  in  London.  On  account 
of  the  sea  air,  you  know. 

Hanna. —  I  can't  think  that. 

Lifschen. —  But  it's  so.  We're  all  dreadfully  worried  about  you. 
It's  so.     We're  worried  to  death  about  you! 

Hanna. —  So.     That's  only  imagination. 

Lieschen. —  No,  no,  don't  say  that!  Only  yesterday  I  read  in  the  paper 
about  someone  shot  two  girls  at  once,  because  he  was  in  love.  Only  be- 
cause he  didn't  know  which  one  to  take.  And  then,  your  father.  'He's 
always  rioting  'round  again.'  He  makes  him  just  wild!  Do  you  know 
what  he  wrote  to  him  in  London.^  Oh,  no!  I'd  better  not  tell  you.  Any- 
how, you  mustn't  take  it  bad  of  me!  'She  advances,' he  wrote  him.  'She 
advances.  Now  she  is  already  the  mistress  of  a  count.'  You  know  your 
father  —  he  actually  doesn't  know  the  difference  between  a  count  and  a 
baron.     He  hasn't  any  education. 

Hanna. —  My  father  wrote  that.'' 

Lieschen. —  What  I  tell  you!  And  then  Conrad  comes  straight  off 
here,  without  once  thinking  of  the  danger  of  his  running  into  the  police  — 
going 'round!     Just  think!     Suppose  they  caught  him! 

Hanna  {shakes  her  head,  sadly). —  So  that 

Lieschen. —  Yes.     And  you  were  a  covetous  thing. 

Hanna. —  What  is  that.^ 

Lieschen. —  I  don't  know.  He's  always  talking  about  it.  The  right 
kind  of  working  people  ain't  covetous.  It's  only  lies,  when  folks  say  they 
are.  They  don't  want  anything  but  their  rights.  But  the  rich  folks  — 
what  he  calls  the  bourgeoisie  and  also  the  nobility  —  they're  covetous, 
and  always  want  more.     And  you  were  a  covetous  one.     That's  the  way  it  is. 

Hanna  {bitterly). —  'That's  the  way  it  is.'  Yes.  He  is  right.  They 
are  not  covetous.     It  is  bad.     Well,  my  dear  Lieschen,  I  thank  you  very 

much  for  your  friendly — notification,  and Please,  go  to  mother  again 

to-day,  will  you.^  Tell  her  she  must  have  no  foolish  fears.  I  will  soon  be 
through  with  Conrad.  Yes  —  I  should  be  glad  if  he  came.  I  can  set 
myself  quite  right  with  him.  He  is  not  like  my  father  —  who  will  never 
understand  me. 

Lieschen. —  Yes,  you're  quite  right  about  that.  It's  just  the  same  with 
mother.     She  doesn't  understand  me  at  all. 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  405 

Hanna. —  So  ? 

Lieschen. —  Not  a  bit.  My  God,  and  it's  so  simple!  What's  anyone 
to  do,  then,  if  one  wants  to  get  on  and  —  and  wants  to  have  any  good  out 
of  living?  Isn't  it  so?  No  respectable  man  will  marry  me  now,  and, 
anyway,  what  good  would  it  do  me,  if  a  painter  or  a  bricklayer  should  come 
along;  a  fellow  who  had  nothing  to  eat  himself  —  and  he'd  want  to  have 
children,  too.  No,  no!  When  one  has  gone  round  with  fine  gentlemen  in 
better  society,  afterwards  such  things  don't  suit  one  any  more.  Not  by  a 
long  shot.     Ain't  I  right? 

Hanna. —  Certainly,  Lieschen  —  and  it  is  very  good  to  be  in  the  right. 
But 

Lieschen. —  Yes,  it's  so,  ain't  it?  Oh!  do  you  know,  dear  cousin,  the 
rest  of  them  —  they  were  all  just  too  stupid.  But  I  —  I  can  well  say,  from 
the  beginning  I  had  always  the  right  idea  of  you!  And  if  I  used  to  be  a 
little  hateful  to  you  —  it  was  nothing  but  envy.     Good  God ! 

Hanna  {diverted). —  Yes,  yes,  and  I  never  imagined  anything  else 
about  it. 

Lieschen  {more  emphatically). —  Hand  on  heart  —  nothing  but  envy! 
Never,  like  the  others,  about  morals  or  such  like.  No  idea!  What  for? 
Nowadays  one  must  be  modern. 

Hanna  {smiling). —  How  did  you  find  that  out? 

Lieschen. —  Oh,  I  found  it  out,  little  by  little,  all  by  myself.  No, 
really,  dear  cousin,  you  wouldn't  believe  how  long  I've  been  wanting  to 
have  a  real  good  talk  with  you.  It's  really  so.  For  at  the  bottom,  you 
must  know,  I've  always  thought  to  myself  that  you  were  all  right.  Quite 
right  she  is,  I  always  said  —  quite  right!  What  good  does  it  do  to  live  a 
poor  life? 

Hanna  {laughs  heartily). 

Lieschen  {joining  in  the  laugh). —  Well,  of  course,  it's  just  so!  See, 
and,  therefore,  dear  cousin,  I  think  we  both  ought  to Hey? 

Hanna  {turns  away  from  Lieschen,  who  wants  to  seize  her  hand.  Seri- 
ously and  coolly). —  Excuse  me.  I  have  no  more  time.  I  must  go  down  to 
the  work-room  again.  So,  once  more,  give  mother  my  best  thanks  for  her 
'warning,'  but  —  you  know.     Can  I  —  do  anything  else  for  you? 

Lieschen  {in  an  affected  tone,  as  if  hurt). —  Not  that  I  know  of.     Thanks 

very   much.      {In   another   tone,    quickly.)     That   is {Confidentially.) 

You,  Hanna  —  be  open  and  honest  with  me.  Does  your  baron  give  you  a 
great  deal? 

Hanna  {vehemently). —  Oh,  please,  Lieschen  —  go  now!     Whymymother 

should  send  just  you Well  —  anyhow {She  takes  out  her  purse.) 

I  won't  be  ungrateful;  here —  {gives  her  a  gold  piece)  for  the  trouble. 


406  HANNA  J  ACU^RT 

Li^schfn  [tuiYS  thr  ntonfy  and  looks  at  it  for  a  minute,  irresolutely,  then- 
puts  it  in  her  pocket  and  says  coolly,  almost  condescendingly). —  Please,  please, 
doii'l  nieiuion  it.      1  won't  disturb  nou  any  longer.      {Turns  to  go.)     Adieu. 

II anna  {turned  away). —  Adieu.      {Sits  down  at  the  desk,  on  the  left.) 

Lieschen.—  Pah!     {Shrugs  her  shoulders.     Goes  away  at  the  rear.) 

Ilanna  {looking  thoughtfully  before  her,  shakes  her  head.  Pause.  Rous- 
ing from  her  thoughts,  half  laughing). —  'What  good  docs  it  do  to  lead  a  poor 
life'!  {Rises  and  rings.  Then  she  goes  back  to  the  desk,  takes  up  some 
letters  and  locks  it.  Hedwig  comes  in  at  the  left.)  Hedwig,  I  remain  at 
home  to-day.  Put  on  more  coal.  I  am  going  down-stairs  now.  If  the 
baron  comes,  ask  him  to  wait  up  here  for  me.  {Goes  to  the  door.  A  ring 
is  heard  outside.)  Is  that  he  already.''  See.  (Hedwig,  going  out  at  the 
rear.     Wa'S'sa  fingers  her  hair  nervously.)     Or  even 

Bernhard  {coming  in  fast.  Heartily). —  Good-evening!  Good-even- 
ing. Oh,  I  beg  pardon.  I  always  forget  to  take  off  my  things  first  out- 
side. {Goes  away  again  hurriedly.  Hedwig  comes  in  through  the  open  door, 
crosses  the  stage  and  goes  away  at  the  left.  Bernhard, /row  outside,  speaking 
through  the  open  door.)  Couldn't  you  accustom  the  good  girl  to  help  me  a 
bit  about  this.^ 

Hanna  {smiling). —  But,  Bernhard,  I  believe  in  self-help. 

Bernhard  {coming  in). —  Yes,  yes,  it  is  good,  I  know.  How  do  you 
do.'     {Goes  to  her  and  kisses  her  hand.)     Well,  of  course.     Yes.'' 

Hanna. —  And  you.''  Thank  you  —  but  you  come  so  early  to-day.  I 
must  go  down-stairs  again. 

Bernhard. —  Down-stairs !  Always  down-stairs !  It  is  dreadful !  ( Vehe- 
mently.) Oh,  Hanna,  you  —  {draws  her  to  him  and  kisses  her,  then  releases 
her  and  turns  away)  you  have  no  idea  how  sad  you  make  me  with  your  — 
with  this  eternal  'business.' 

Hanna. —  But  my  dear  Bern!  You  must  be  reasonable.  Even  if  I 
were  to  sell  the  business  now 

Bernhard  {quickly). —  Well.''     Now.? 

Hanna  {smiling). —  I  mean,  even  then  I  should  have  to  be  active  in  it 
up  to  the  last  day.     In  that  rests  —  my  freedom. 

Bernhard. —  A  beautiful  freedom! 

Hanna. —  Yes!  To  one  it  comes  cheaply  —  to  another  dearly.  There 
is  no  other  way  —  as  yet.  But  now  let  me  go.  The  girls  are  waiting  for 
me.  Don't  let  the  time  be  long.  There!  {She  motions  to  the  bookcase.) 
In  case  you  want  to  do  something  for  your  education.  Auf  Wiedersehen. 
(Goes  to  the  door.      There  she  stands  still.     Softly,  tenderly.)     Bern.'* 

Bernhard. —  Yes.'' 

Hanna. —  I  have  something  —  something  to  say  to  you  afterwards. 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  407 

Bernhard. —  Yes?     What  then? 

Hanna. —  Afterwards!     Oh,  we  will  be  such  happy  people,  Bern. 

Bernhard  (going  towards  her). —  Hanna! 

Hanna  (lifts  her  hand,  motioning  him  away). —  Pst!  Afterwards. 
{Goes  away  quickly.     Pause.) 

Bernhard  (has  become  very  serious.  He  sighs  loudly  and  goes  to  the  left. 
Urgently) .— hike  a  child!  Like  a  child!  (Hedwig  comes  in  from  the  left 
with  the  coal  hod  and  goes  to  the  stove.  Bernhard,  starting  up.)  What? 
You  are  going  to  put  on  more  coal? 

Hedwig  (undisturbed) . —  Miss  Jagert  ordered  it 

Bernhard  (ironically). —  Oh,  of  course.     If  Miss  Jagert  ordered  it 


(Sits  down  at  the  table  by  the  corner  sofa,  and  opens  a  book.     Pushes  it  aside 

again.)     Say,  Hedwig,  I  always  wanted  to  ask  you (Hedwig,  working 

about  the  stove,  undisturbed.)  I  mean,  suppose  there  should  come  a  sudden 
change  here,  or,  let  us  say,  a  change  here  soon  —  suppose  that  Miss  Jagert 
should  move  away  from  Berlin  or  something  like  that:  you  would  go  too, 
wouldn't  you? 

Hedwig. —  Such  a  thing  wouldn't  happen. 

Bernhard. —  So  ?     Well 

Hedwig. —  Miss  Jagert  will  never  move  away  from  Berlin. 

Bernhard  (angrily — .)  Very  good!     How  do  you  know  that? 

Hedwig  (without  turning  round,  crossly). —  Miss  Jagert  would  take  care 
of  herself  and  not  have  to  begin  all  over  again  somewhere  else. 

Bernhard  (cutting  her  short). —  Well! 

Hedwig  (has  finished  her  work  and  rises.  Coldly). —  Baron  von  Vernier 
knows  our  young  lady  only  superficially. 

Bernhard  (severely). —  I  beg.  (There  is  a  ring.  Hedwig  looks  angrily 
at  Bernhard /or  a  moment,  the?i  shrugs  her  shoulders  and  goes  out  at  the  rear. 
Bernhard,  alone,  raging.)     It  is  —  it  is  really 

Hedwig  (opens  the  door  for  Alexander.  Politely). — ■  Allow  me.  Dr. 
Koenitz.     (S>he  helps  him  take  off  his  cloak.      Then  she  goes  out.) 

Bernhard  (in  the  greatest  astonishment) . —  Dr.  Koenitz!     You? 

Alexander. —  Yes  —  I.     Good-evening. 

Bernhard  (goes  nearer  and  extends  his  hand). —  Good-evening. 

Alexander  (holds  the  hand  fast,  earnestly). —  I  —  must  first  of  all  beg 
your  pardon  that  I  responded  to  the  sad  news  of  your  uncle's  death — only  by 
letter.  But  —  my  leg  was  again  —  out  of  order  —  and  is  still  not  all  right. 
Or  I  should  have  been  over  all  mountains  long  ago. 

Bernhard. —  Yes,  I  heard  you  were  going  to  Sicily. 

Alexander  (limps  to  the  chair  on  the  right  by  the  center-table).—  So  I  am.  At 
least  —  I  should  have  been  already  on  the  way  to-day.     Hm.      (Sits  down.) 


408  HANNA  JAC^KRT 

Brrnhard  {in  a  tonr  oj  jrifndly  reproach). —  All  this  time  you  haven't 
let  us  see  you.     Since  that  time! 

AUxanJir. —  Vou  think  —  ruins  arc  a  part  of  the  laiuiscapc. 

B^rnhard  {warmly). —  Oh  —  we  wanted  to  remain  good  friends! 

AUxandfr.—  Yes.  Well,  and  I  have  not  kept  away  because  of  ennnity. 
Or  did  you  think  so.^ 

Bcrtihard. —  Dear  friend! 

Alexander. —  Well,  then.  Oh,  it  is  warm  here.  Like  Sicily.  And 
altogether,  tremendously  comfortable.  (Sighs.)  Yes,  yes!  Anyone  who 
could  remain  quietly  here  —  would  be  a  fool  if  he  —  went  on  a  journey. 
Isn't  it  so? 

B(-rnhard. —  There  you  have  it.     Then  why  don't  you  come.'' 

Altway-ider. —  Who  knows!  Perhaps  it  is  an  innate  distaste  of  being  the 
third  wheel  to  the  bicycle.  Perhaps  it  is  the  pride  of  my  manly  soul.  As 
Lasker  said:  'let's  leave  it  unsettled.'  So  much  is  sure:  to-day  I  had  a  suffi- 
ciently legitimate  reason  for  coming. 

Bernhard. —  I  beg  your  pardon,  doctor,  but  I  should  think  that  you, 
as  an  old  bachelor,  had  rightly  always  sufficient  reason 

Alexander. —  To  disturb  other  people.^  No!  I  conceive  my  situation 
in  a  more  human  friendly  way.  And  it  is  also  not  as  difficult  as  you  believe. 
For,  setting  aside  the  memorable  —  episode  not  unknown  to  you,  I  have 
always,  all  my  life,  really  been  outside — -do  you  understand.^  Outside. 
So  I  am  accustomed  to  it. 

Bernhard  {disconcerted). —  But,  dear  Dr.  Koenitz 

Alexander. —  Yes,  yes.  You  always  forget:  it  is  not  such  an  inhumanly 
long  time  since  I  was  a  beggarly  poor  student  —  the  real,  typical,  educated 
proletaire,  until  I  made  my  discovery.  And  I  have  not  grown  unaccus- 
tomed to  it,  not  at  all.  I  learned  early  enough  to  be  by  myself.  Hm.  Well! 
That  is  not  what  we  are  to  talk  about.  Tell  me  first  of  all,  how  are  you? 
I  mean  —  how  well.''  How  is  it  with  art.^  Or,  the  arts,  one  must  ask  of 
you.  Have  you  decided  for  one  of  them.''  Has  the  violin  conquered.''  The 
dear  violin!     How  is  it  with  that.^" 

Bernhard. —  Thank  you.     Better  than  with  me.     It  has  rest. 

Alexander  (looks  at  him.  He  takes  a  cigar  from  his  case). —  Yes,  that 
is  an  extremely  difficult  matter  —  you  do  not  smoke.'' 

Bernhard. —  No.     But  please 

Alexander. —  In  consequence  of  which  the  lady  of  the  house  is  no  longer 
accustomed  to  it.  And  you  —  but  you  have  too  little  sway  here  —  (during 
this  time  Alexander  has  cut  the  end  of  his  cigar,  lighted  it,  and  is  now  taking 
the  first  puffs  in  a  comfortable  way)  or  I  would  have  asked  your  permission. 

Bernhard. —  There,  there  it  is  again!     Now  you  begin  about  it! 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  409 

Alexander. —  About  what? 

Bernhard. —  Oh,  dearest  Dr.  Koenitz!  You  have  no  idea  how  I  am 
treated  in  this  house.     It's  impossible  to  describe  it. 

Alexander  {comfortably). —  Well  —  then  describe  it. 

Bernhard. —  If  anyone  had  ever  told  me  that!  And  if  I,  in  conse- 
quence of  it,  were  sitting  in  prison  now  on  account  of  manslaughter  com- 
mitted in  violent  anger  —  I  should  be  better  off. 

Alexander. —  Oh,  come,  now! 

Bernhard. —  See  —  when  I  used  to  go  home  in  my  vacations  —  and 
see  how  my  good  old  uncle,  now  and  then,  was  as  rough  as  a  pig  to  the 
people  —  he  could  be  that  —  I,  as  a  sensitive  son  of  the  Muses,  used  to  find 
it  dreadful,  simply  dreadful.  Once  I  made  a  real  speech  about  it  to  my 
uncle  —  but,  do  you  know,  all  that  was  childishness,  that  was  pure  senti- 
mental gush  in  comparison  with  the  way  and  manner  I  am  treated  here! 
And  the  greatest  thing  about  it  is,  not  only  the  mistress  of  the  house  treats 
me  so  —  how  shall  I  say  it  —  like  an  amiable  sort  of  ornament  —  but  the 
servant,  this  cast-iron  Hedwig  —  do  you  think  she  has  any  well-grounded 
conviction  of  the  value  of  my  existence.''  Not  one  bit  of  it.  (Alexander 
laughs.)  Oh,  don't  laugh!  It  is  very  hard.  I  still  have  some  desperate 
cheerfulness  —  but  in  the  long  run  —  how  is  one  himself  to  keep  any  faith 
in  the  importance  of  his  existence.'' 

Alexander  {drily). —  You  are  right.     It  must  be  very  hard.     {Pause.) 

Bernhard  {in  a  changed  tone;  very  seriously). —  And  it  is  not  to  go  on 
so. 

Alexander  {also  earnestly,  almost  alarmed). —  What  —  do  you  say.'' 
{Pause.) 

Bernhard. —  Such  things  are  not  for  everyone.  It  was  different  with 
you.  With  you  there  was  no  danger  —  about  independence.  You  stood 
in  another  relation  to  her,  not  only  as  an  equal,  you  were  even  from  the 
beginning,  in  a  way,  above  her  —  like  a  teacher.  She  subordinated  herself 
intellectually  to  you  once  for  all. 

Alexander. —  Unfortunately,  yes. 

Bernhard. —  But  I,  on  the  contrary,  thank  God,  possess  not  the  slightest 
pedagogical  talent!  And  Hanna,  being  accustomed  to  this,  feels  my  in- 
completeness.    An  educator  is  wanted. 

Alexander. —  Oh,  now 

Bernhard. —  Yes,  yes!  She  is  very  fond  of  me  —  I  know  that  —  but 
the  way  she  treats  me  is  nevertheless  —  is  nevertheless 

Alexander. —  Well .'' 

Bernhard. —  Oh!     That  is  not  the  right  relation  between  man  and  wife. 

Alexander. —  Hm,  hm ! 


410  llANNA  JAGERT 

Bi-rnhard. —  Never,  never!  Do  you  know  how  that  seems  to  me? 
Quite  turned  round!     As  if  I  —  were  her  sweetheart. 

.■iUxandrr. —  Yes  —  and  isn't  that  the  case? 

Bernhard. —  Sir! 

AUxander. —  My  honored  Sir! 

Brrnhard. —  Oh,  you  understand  me  very  well. 

.llexander. —  Well  —  who  knows!  perhaps — I  understand  you  to  say 
that,  according  to  your  idea,  the  case  would  be  in  order  if  Ilanna  were  your 
sweetheart. 

Be-rnhard  {puzzled). —  How?  Don't  lay  it  up  against  me,  but  it  is 
really  wicked  the  way  people  like  you  —  the  simplest  and  most  genuine 
that  there  are  in  the  world  —  artificially  entangle  and  complicate  the  rela- 
tion between  man  and  wife  till  no  sound  man  can  get  clear  in  his  mind  about 
it.     Yes,  in  that  you  are  virtuosi!  —  And  Hanna  gets  all  her  whims  from  you. 

Alexander  {puffing  away). —  Leaving  you  out  of  consideration 

Bernhard. —  From  me  she  takes  nothing. 

Alexander. —  So.  Well,  as  you  may  think.  In  any  case:  men 
like  me  do  not  exactly  believe,  that  —  the  relation  between  man  and  wife — 
to-day  is  really  so  simple,  so  natural.  Men  like  me  are  much  more  of  the 
conviction,  that  at  this  time  it  has  again  become  a  problem. 

Bernhard. —  'Problem'!     I  am  no  nutcracker. 

Alexander. —  No.     It  would  be  wrong  to  state  that.     {Pause.) 

Bernhard  {fervently). —  Dear  Dr.  Koenitz!  My  heart  is  so  full!  And 
I  have  always  had  the  most  unbounded  confidence  in  you.  You  have  not 
yet  told  me  why  you  came  here,  but  it  is  good  that  you  are  here.  Let  me 
be  frantically  candid  with  you.  You  are  the  only  man  I  know  with  whom 
one  can  be  that  without  regret.     {He  extends  his  hand.) 

Alexander  {takes  the  hand  and  looks  at  him.     Earnestly). —  I  thank  you. 

Bernhard. —  See,  when  I  try  to  make  Hanna's  personality  clear  to 
myself  —  I  know  so  painfully  little  how  she  came  to  be  what  she  is.  I  have 
known  her  as  a  ripened,  self-centered  nature 

Alexander. —  You  think  that?  Well,  unfortunately,  I  and  the  facts, 
we  could  not  declare  you  right  about  that. 

Bernhard. —  Yes 

Alexander. —  But  it  is  all  the  same.  You  would  like  to  have  me  tell 
you  something  about  the  time  when  I  was  —  Hanna's  teacher.  Isn't 
that  it?  Yes,  I  understand.  {Pause.)  Well,  then,  the  multiplication 
table  I  did  not  teach  her.  And  that  things  are  pretty  badly  arranged  in 
life,  that  also  I  did  not  teach  her.  Such  elementary  knowledge  she  had 
already.  But  other  things,  that  there  are  beautiful  verses  —  and  beautiful 
pictures  —  and  —  and  also  good  red  wine,  and  that  life  in  general,  for  the 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  411 

sake  of  living,  is  beautiful.  Such  things,  you  know.  Hm.  Yes.  When 
I  think  of  this  awakening,  this  germinating  of  the  springtime  in  her  feeling! 
She  had  come  to  me  hungry  and  thirsty.  It  was  like  a  new  world  for  her! 
Like  a  new  religion  —  beauty  —  art  —  enjoyment.  Up  to  that  time  the 
Party  had  been  the  one  thing  —  everything  —  to  her.  And  as  long  as  she 
could  hold  high  faith  in  a  speedy  revolution,  it  was  enough.  But  that  faith 
went.  And  what  remained  —  good  God!  That  was  consumed  all  too 
quickly  by  the  understanding  —  by  such  an  understanding!  And  now 
the  heart  —  the  mind  —  and  the  dear  senses!  They  hungered  and  thirsted, 
as  I  said  —  it  was  pitiful  to  see  —  and  I  opened  all  the  doors!  And  it  was 
a  deep  heart's  delight  to  see  how,  as  soon  as  the  first  timidity  was  overcome, 
she  gave  herself  up  to  all  the  good  things  of  life  with  a  naive  appetite. 
{With  a  deep  sigh.)  Yes !  And  even  now  —  on  winter  days  —  I  am  warmed 
by  the  thought  of  it  all.  But  before  the  spring  itself  —  I  flee  —  to  Italy. 
It  is  — ■  spoiled  for  me.     And  down  there,  it  is  alreadv  over. 

Bernhard. —  Hm.  And  —  Dr.  Koenitz  —  pardon  me.  Did  you  never 
at  that  time  think  of  —  marrying  Hanna.'* 

Alexander  {starting  a  little  with  surprise).— Oh.  —  do  you  happen  to 
have  an  ash-tray."* 

Bernhard. —  Oh,  I  beg  pardon!     {He  puts  one  before  him.) 

Alexander. —  Thank  you.  Hm.  Oh,  yes,  my  dear  fellow,  I  did  think 
of  it. 

Bernhard. —  But.^' 

Alexander. —  But  she  did  not. 

Bernhard. —  She  did  not  want  to! 

Alexander. —  No. 

Bernhard. —  Impossible!  Pardon,  but  —  I  don't  understand  that.  It 
is  new  to  me. 

Alexander. — -That  is  against  Nature,  isn't  it.^  But  be  comforted, 
Baron  von  Vernier,  I  as  a  plebeian  did  not  understand  it  at  first.  Well, 
but  that  shall  not  keep  us  from  holding  aloft  the  banner  of  science  and  the 
'philosophy  of  free  humanity,'  and  if  you  believe  yourself  to  have  enough 
influence  on  your  friend,  the  cast-iron  Hedwig,  please  ring  and  order  some- 
thing for  me  to  drink.     My  evening  thirst  is  announcing  itself. 

Bernhard  {rings). —  Forgive  me.     I  ought  to  have  thought  of  it  myself. 

Hedwig  {from  the  left,  to  Alexander). —  Does  Dr.  Koenitz  wish  for 
something? 

Bernhard  {sharply).—  !  rang.     Bring  a  bottle  {To  Alexander.) 

Red  wine.'' 

Alexander  {smiling,  nods). 

Hedwig. —  I  have  no  key. 


4i:  llANNA  JAGKRT 

H^rnkard.---  0\\,  ploaso,  llu-ii,  if  \o\\  will  he  so  kind  as  to  go  down  and 
let  Miss  Jagcrt  give  it  to  you. 

Alexander  {gives  the  still  hesitating  Hedwic;  a  sign  behind  Bernhard's 
bacicy  iikereupon  she  goes  away  to  the  rear). —  Ncm-,  sec  how  she  obeys. 

Bernhard. —  Obeys.''  You  call  that  obeying.''  I  had  to  make  such 
eyes  at  her  first!  [Looks  at  Ai.i:xandi:r  imperiously.)  Well,  now  you  have 
seen  it  )ourself.  I  have  to  be  pleased  with  tliat  sort  of  thing.  I! — no, 
no!  It  wc^n't  do!  I  am  not  the  man  for  that.  I  simply  never  learned 
that.  It  seems  I  must  steal  into  the  sisterly  love  of  this  person  —  before 
I  can  ask  anything  of  her.  I  never  was  gifted  in  that  way!  But  when  1 
say  that  to  Hanna,  then  —  then  she  laughs. 

Alexander. —  Yes,  she  is  a  heartless  woman. 

Bernhard. —  She  is  the  most  heartful  woman  in  the  world,  but  in  a 
kind  of  way  egoistic;  there  exists  nothing  —  absolutely  nothing  outside  of 
herself. 

Alexander. —  Thank  God. 

Bernhard. —  And  what  have  I  come  to.''  I  have  no  contour  any  more. 
(Excited.)  But  there  must  be  an  end  to  it.  And  to-day!  I  wanted  to  tell 
you  before  —  I  have  long  been  determined  on  it.  Whatever  happens  —  all 
the  same,  whatever  happens  —  I  ask  her  to-day,  whether  she  —  will  be  — 
my  wife. 

Alexander. —  Oh!  Why  will  you  spoil  the  pleasant  evening.^  (Hedwig 
comes  from  the  left  with  a  bottle  of  wine  ayid  two  glasses.  She  places  them  on 
the  table  and  goes  away  again.  Alexander  pours  himself  out  a  glass  and 
tastes  it.  Bernhard  is  pacing  restlessly  up  and  down.  Alexander,  looking 
at  the  label  on  the  bottle,  smiling  to  himself,  aloud  to  Bernhard.)  Well  —  but, 
after  all,  she  has  ^ Humor. ^  Perhaps  she  will  take  it  all  right.  Let  us  hope 
for  the  best. 

Bernhard. —  *But  we  are  going  to  be  such  happy  people,'  she  said. 

Alexa7ider  {genially). —  Hm.  My  dear  Mr.  von  Vernier,  please,  come 
here.  Sit  down  here  with  me.  So.  {Pours  a  glass  for  him.)  Prosit! 
{They  clink  glasses.)  Let  us  be  contented!  Do  you  know  who  is  going  to 
visit  us  this  evening.^ 

Bernhard  {apathetically). —  No. 

Alexander. —  A  certain  Conrad  Thieme. 

Bernhard  {springs  up  excitedly). —  What.^     The  man  who  fired  at  you.'' 

Alexander. —  Well,  yes.  For  what  reason  did  you  think  I  should  come 
here .' 

Bernhard. —  To-day.'' 

Alexander. —  Yes. 

Bernhard. —  What  can  the  man  want? 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  413 

Alexander. —  Yes,  that  is  something  he  doesn't  himself  know.  At 
all  events,  he  is  coming.  I  know  it  from  a  workman,  an  old  friend  of  his. 
He  foolishly  poured  out  his  heart  to  him,  and  on  the  occasion  —  a  spick 
and  span  new  revolver  came  into  view. 

Bernhard. —  Revolver! 

Alexander. —  Yes.  Oh,  you  mustn't  think  anything  special  about  that. 
Those  are  not  the  worst  people  in  the  world  who  like  to  go  about  among  people 
armed.     The  trans-atlantic  customs, thetheoryofthepersonalexecutive 

Bernhard. —  And  you  didn't  have  him  arrested? 

Alexander. —  Arrested.^  No.  That  is  not  to  my  taste.  Moreover, 
who  knows,  probably  the  man  was  quite  right.  He  had  his  information 
out  of  Hanna's  family  circle.  Well,  I  can't  take  it  at  all  amiss  of  him  that 
he  comes  here  to  kill  her.  I  should,  perhaps,  do  so  in  his  place,  if  —  the 
medium  of  my  temperament  allowed  it. 

Bernhard.—  T  —  I  am  quite  —  distracted.  You  say  all  that  as  quietly 
as  if  you  yourself  feared  nothing  —  as  if  it  was  all  a  joke.  And  you  come 
here  yourself  and 

Alexander. —  Yes,  see:  I  didn't  want  Hanna  to  be  alone  when  the  young 
man  —  paid  her  his  visit.  I  think  it  judicious  if  some  one  were  to  be  here 
who  could  meet  the  declarant  with  —  arguments  founded  on  reason.  He 
will  probably  rage  at  Hanna  in  a  perfectly  senseless  way;  she  will,  perhaps, 
do  no  better  on  her  side,  and  so  it  may  be  that  I  —  with  my  well-known 
talent  for  academics  —  would  be  of  service  in  puttingtheactual  circumstances 
before  him  in  a  clear  light.  That  is  sometimes  of  great  value.  Well,  and 
in  case  of  need  —  {he  draws  a  revolver  out  of  his  pocket  and  shows  it  to  Bern- 
hard)  I  had  such  a  thing  myself. 

Bernhard  {agitated). —  That  is {With  sudden  alarm.)     Where  is 

Hanna.''  Don't  you  think  she  ought  to  have  been  up  here  long  ago.'*  It  is 
half  past  seven!  If  the  man  should  have  been  lying  in  wait  for  her!  I  will 
go  down. 

Alexander  {quietly). —  Do  not  be  concerned,  my  dear  Mr.  von  Vernier, 
he  fires  only  en  face.  I  know  that.  And  he  knows  that  she  will  admit  him 
if  he  wants  to  come  to  her. 

Bernhard. —  'Admit  him'?  For  God's  sake!  One  must  instruct 
Hedwig.     {Hurries  to  the  bell.) 

Alexander. —  I  am  afraid  that  even  your  cast-iron  Hedwig  will  not 
help  you  in  this  case.  Whatever  Hanna  wants  to  do  —  she  has  always 
carried  through.     Ah  

Hanna  {opens  the  door  from  the  outside  into  the  background.  Speaking 
outside). —  It  is  good.  You  can  shut  up  then.  {Calls  Conrad  to  come  in.) 
Please.     Come.     (Conrad,  dressed  as  a  foreigner,  very  much  aged,  pale,  and 


■\\\  II  \\\  \   J  XCl'.KT 

uithou:  b(-iirii,  comts  in.  Bkrmiard,  ut  the  desk  at  tlw  left,  as  if  rooted  there. 
Alexander  has  involuntarily  started  at  the  sound  of  Hanna's  voice,  but  con- 
trolled himsrlf,  risen  slowly  and  turned  toward  the  incomers.) 

Conrad  {has  at  first  returned  Alexander's  look,  zvithout  recognizing  him. 
Suddenly,  terribly  excited).- -You \  You  arc  here!  Here!  What  is  it? 
^V*hat  does  it  mean  ? 

Alexander  {goes  (quietly  to  Conrad  a7id  holds  out  his  hand). —  Mr. 
Thieme,  I  am  not  your  enemy.  {He  holds  out  the  right  hand  to  him,  while 
he  extends  the  left  to  Hanna,  who  quickly  grasps  it.  Conrad  hesitates  at  first. 
Then,  at  a  look  froyn  Hanna,  takes  his  hand.  Alexander  holds  his  hand  for 
a  moment  tightly;  they  look  at  each  other.) 

Hanna  {to  Alexander). —  I  heard  that  you  had  come.  {With  a  look 
of  understanding.)  I  thank  you.  {To  Bernhard.)  Well  —  Bernhard  — 
you  stand  there,  looking  so  apart?  {To  Conrad,  with  a  hand-movement  of 
introduction.)     The  Count,  about  whom  my  father  wrote  to  you 

Bernhard  {deeply  hurt). —  But,  Hanna,  T  beg  you,  how  can  you  —  I 
don't  understand  you {Stops.) 

Hanna. —  Oh,  you  do  not  know 

Bernhard  {rudely). —  I  know  enough. 

Hanna  {severely). —  Bernhard! 

Bernhard  {under  the  force  of  her  look,  laboriously  polite).  —  Mr. 
Thieme  —  you  will  naturally  find  it  not  incomprehensible  —  that  I,  who 
do  not  know  —  with  what  design,  with  what  thoughts  you — {with 
emphasis)  come  to  my  betrothed  —  that  I  hesitate  to  welcome  you  here! 
Tell  us  what  you  wish  here.  What  brings  you  here!  I  hope  that 
you  entertain  for  my  betrothed  the  respect  that  she  may  claim  and  which  I 
demand! 

Conrad  {uncertainly). —  Count,  you  speak  of  your  betrothed? 

Bernhard  {shortly). —  I  am  not  Count.     My  name  is  Vernier. 

Conrad  {flying  into  a  passion). —  Sir!  There  is  nothing  in  the  whole 
world  more  indifferent  to  me. 

Bernhard  {breaking  in  hotly). —  Will  you  now 

Alexander  {loudly). —  Vernier! 

Hanna  {at  the  same  time). —  Bernhard!  {Pause.  To  Conrad.)  Yes  — 
hespokeofhis — betrothed,  (To  Bernhard.)  Youmeantme.  (To  Conr.\d.) 
But  you  mustn't  take  offence  at  that.  Bernhard  does  not  know  you.  He 
thinks,  perhaps,  you  would  have  more  respect  for  the  betrothed  of  —  excuse 
me,  Bernhard  —  of  Mr.  von  Vernier,  than  for  an  independent  woman  — 
for  me. 

Bernhard. —  In  any  case,  I  have  not  yet  the  honor  of  knowing  Mr. 
Thiemeandjtherefore,  I  feel  myself  justified  in  askinghimwhathe  wishes  here. 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  415 

Conrad  {heavily). —  I  do  —  what  I  must  do  —  that  I  —  I  —  may  — 
not  suffocate.  And  I  have  never  asked  whether  that  —  is  exactly  agree- 
able to  others. 

Alexander  {to  Bernhard,  interrupting  him). —  As  I  know  Mr.  Thieme 

—  he  has  no  more  passionate  wish  than  —  to  be  able  to  esteem  his  former 
betrothed.  Only  —  he  has  been  misinformed  about  her,  she  has  been 
slandered,  her  image  distorted  —  and  he  comes  here  now  —  to  convince 
himself  of  the  truth.     {To  Conrad.)     That  is  it.^ 

Conrad.  —  Yes 

Alexander  {cordially).- — -Now,  then.  Come,  Mr.  Thieme,  sit  down 
here  —  by  me  —  so.  (Conrad  is  about  to  accept  this  proposal.  Hanna 
and  Bernhard  also  come  toward  the  center-table,  to  sit  down.)  The  letter 
that  you  wrote  me  six  months  ago  — ■ — ■  (Bernhard  whispers  something 
quickly  to  Hanna,  while  Alexander  is  speaking.     Hanna  shakes  her  head.) 

Conrad  {who  has  observed  this,  suddenly,  with  great  vehemence,  very  loudly). 

—  No!  No!  No!  I  will  not!  I  will  not  let  myself  be  smoothed  down! 
To  the  devil  with  the  smooth  phrases!  I  will  carry  out  the  purpose  for 
which  I  came.  Nothing  more.  Hanna!  I  have  to  speak  to  you!  to  you 
alone!  (Bernhard  tries  to  crowd  in  between  Hanna  and  Conrad.  Hanna 
motions  him  back  with  her  hand.  Alexander,  who  has  already  seated  him- 
self again,  rises  quickly  and  looks  sharply  in  Conrad's  eyes.  All  this  happens 
while  Conrad  is  speaking.     Then  a  brief  pause.) 

Hanna  {quietly,  while  she  looks  fully  at  Conrad). —  So,  speak. 

Conrad  {with  suppressed  passion). —  Hanna,  years  ago  we  could  well 
understand  each  other.  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  now  possible  any  more. 
At  that  time  you  fought  —  and  I  still  do  to-day  —  for  our  fellow-men. 
Their  wretchedness  moved  you  then  —  the  injustice  that  they  suffered 
exasperated  you  then  —  and  you  wanted  to  work  for  their  deliverance  — 
for  their  salvation!     And  now.f* 

Han?ia. —  Conrad,  I  have,  I  think,  seen  mankind,  my  dear  fellow- 
men,  clearly.  Believe  me,  it  is  not  the  outside  enemies  of  a  Party  which 
alienate  one  from  it.  Everyone  who  was  not  a  weakling  would  only  be 
made  harder  by  them.  But  all  these  countless  disappointments  in  friends 
and  comrades,  that  one  has  to  live  through,  year  in  and  year  out,  these 
small,  miserable  intrigues,  these  ridiculous  meannesses  of  all  kinds  —  and, 
above  all,  this  indolent  arrogance  of  the  pedantic  empty-heads  —  it  was 
that,  do  you  see,  all  that  which  made  the  Party  life  at  last  a  kind  of  hell 
to  me!  And  so  it  came  that,  in  time,  I  learned  to  hate  every  form  of  op- 
pression. Not  only  one  or  the  other.  I  saw  how  they  lived  —  these  men 
who  pretended  to  be  working  for  a  better  future.  The  belief  that  one  can 
save  the  world  by  putting  an  untried  power  in  the  place  of  an  existing  power 


416  HANNA  JAGERT 

—  that  faitli  is  lost  id  mv.  And  so  then  I  resigned  myself  to  a  kind  of  inner 
mission  and  —  began  with  myself,  ^'ou  may  like  to  call  that  egoism. 
But  it  seems  to  me  —  that  mankind  would  progress  faster  —  if  there  were 
more  such  —  egoists.     {Pause.) 

Conrad    (gloomily). —  I    too  —  believe    no    longer  —  in    many    things. 

(Fanatically.)     But    in    spite   of   that  —  I (Breaking   of.)     But   we 

won't  talk  any  longer  about  that.  1  can  understand  how  you  have  become 
what  }ou  are.  Only  one  thing!  Tell  me  only  one  thing  —  this  man  here, 
what  kind  of  a  claim  has  he  on  you."* 

Hanna  (clearly). —  I  —  love  him! 

Bernhard  (breaking  out). —  What  gives  you  the  right 

Hanna  (quickly). —  Bernhard.  What  gives  you  a  right.^  He  has 
come  to  me.  To  me  —  not  to  you.  And  I  will  talk  to  him.  Conrad,  that 
is  all  I  have  to  say.  I  —  love  him.  No  other  —  claim  has  he  on  me. 
(Gently,  warmly  and  impressively.)  Conrad,  what  could  you  think  of  me! 
You  —  of  your  old  comrade.'*  You  ask  me  how  it  was  possible  that  Koenitz 
was  here.  See  —  I  know  —  I  —  hurt  him  —  so  deeply  —  at  that  time, 
when  he  felt  —  but  do  you  think  he  judged  me  wrongly  for  one  moment.'' 

No!     In  his  eminent  kindness (Alexander  grumbles  disapprovingly. 

Hanna  looks  over  at  him.  With  emphasis.)  In  his  eminent  kindness  he  as- 
sumed quiet  and  cheerfulness  only  that  I  might  more  easily  do  what  was 
also  in  his  eyes  my  duty  —  release  myself  from  him.  (While  she  reaches  her 
hand  to  Alexander.)  Did  I  understand  you,  Alexander.''  (Alexander 
presses  her  hand,  affected.     Hanna  again  to  Conrad.)     And  Bernhard  — 

the  Count,  to  whose  mistress  I  have  advanced (Movement  among  all.) 

Yes,  yes  —  it  doesn't  sound  pretty.  But  I  must  repeat  it  still  oftener. 
It  is  the  judgment  of  a  father  on  his  child.  Isn't  it  so.''  That  was  the  way 
it  stood  in  the  letter  he  wrote  to  you  in  London.''  (Conrad  nods.)  Well — 
Bernhard  just  now  called  me  his  betrothed.  That  was  wrong  of  him.  Very 
wrong.  For  —  only  ask  him  —  whether,  at  any  time,  since  we  loved  each 
other,  there  has  ever  been  any  word  of  marriage! 

Bernhard. —  Until  now,  no.     But 

Hanna  (quickly). —  Do  you  see!  Do  you  see!  (Vehemently.)  I 
would  rather  be  called  his  mistress  than  his  betrothed.  (All  start.)  Yes. 
(Passionately.)  Much  baser  would  it  be  in  me  if  I,  in  my  position,  were  to 
speculate  on  such  a  marriage  than  for  a  poor,  stupid  girl  whom  —  well  — 
whom  they  insult  by  calling  her  —  mistress  —  when  she  is  unable  to  rise 
again.  (Looks  at  them.)  You  can't  wonder  at  that.  (Again  more  quiet.) 
And  —  forgive  me,  Bernhard  —  but  just  that  has  often  been  a  barrier 
between  us  —  especially  since  your  uncle's  death  —  'has  she  now  reached 
her  ambition.?'     Through  fear  of  this  importuning  thought  —  believe  me,  I 


OTTO  ERICH  HARTLEBEN  417 

have  often  more  jealously  guarded  my  limits,  more  obstinately  emphasized 
my  independence  than  —  my  feelings  bade  me  do.  Bernhard  —  say  it 
here  —  before  this  man  —  is  it  not  true  that  you  never  had  the  thought  — 
the  suspicion,  that  I  would  like  to  be  —  'a  wife.' 

Bernhard. —  But,  Hanna,  how  can  you  only 

Hanna. —  Say  'No.' 

Bernhard. —  No!     No!     {They  clasp  hands  fervently.     Pause.) 

Alexander  {to  Conrad). —  Well,  Mr.  Thieme.'' 

Conrad  {starting  up  as  if  from  a  torpid  state). —  Yes  —  I  must  go. 
He  walks  to  Hanna  and  speaks  jerkingly^  with  a  heaving  breast.)  Hanna  — 
it  is  true  —  I  —  have  —  wronged  you.  People  who  do  not  know  you, 
who  can  never  understand  you  —  have  lied  to  me.  You  are  accountable 
to  no  one.  You  have  your  laws  here  —  in  yourself.  I  feel  that  now.  If 
you  will  —  forgive  me  and  —  nothing  more.  Good-bye.  {He  goes  away 
with  a  quick  step,  without  taking  any  notice  of  the  others.) 

Alexander  {rising) . —  Mr.  Thieme !     Mr.  Thieme !    But  wait.     I  wanted 

to There  he  rushes  off  again.     {To  Hanna.)     One  moment,  I 

{Looks  at  them  loth.)  Moreover,  I'm  not  afraid  that  my  absence  will  dis- 
turb you.     {Goes.) 

Bernhard. —  Hans !     {He  draws  her  to  him.) 

Hanna  {on  his  breast,  softly). —  Bernhard  —  I  told  you  —  before  — 
that  I  —  had  something  to  say  to  you 

Bernhard  {tenderly). —  That  we  are  going  to  be  happy  people  —  yes, 
Hans  —  you  said  that  —  and  I,  I  know  only  one  road  to  that,  only  one  way. 
Hanna  —  be  my  wife ! 

Hanna  {smiling,  softly). —  Am  I  not  now? 

Bernhard  {passionately). —  Hanna  —  show  me  that  you  love  me  — 
simply  —  warm  and  naturally,  as  we  mortal  beings  should  love.  Sacrifice 
to  me  —  sacrifice  to  me  only  a  little  —  of  your  pride  — •  of  your  insupport- 
able Selbstherrlichkeit.  Show  me  that  I  am  not  only  —  your  tutor. 
See!  I  cannot  bear  it  any  longer.  I  am  crushed  by  the  little  humiliations 
that  your  inapproachable  ascendency  —  this  —  this  dreadful  independence 
prepares  for  me.  And  that  I  have  so  little  of  you  —  I  am  made  so.  You 
must  —  take  me  as  I  am  —  only  sacrifice  a  little  bit  to  me.  Be  my  wife! 
Sell  all  this  rubbish!     Leave  Berlin  with  me! 

Hanna  {with  a  joyfully  astonished  smile).—  But,  Bernhard 

Bernhard  {urgently). —  When  you  are  the  mistress  of  Westernach 

Hanna!  You  don't  yourself  believe  that  you  could  lose  the  least  bit  of 
your  precious  sovereignty!  You  will  be  only  more  dear  to  me —  distin- 
guished before  all  the  world!  And  then,  Hanna,  too  —  you  just  now  ad- 
mitted, that  you  quite  too  obstinately  insisted  on  your  present  independence. 


418  HANNA  JAGF.RT 

because  you  were  ahvaysafraid  I  mightlhinkyou  wanted  toln-  married.  Now 
see.  You  have  it  in  your  liaiids.  Marry  me  —  and  you  are  forever  free 
from  that  fear. 

Ilanna  {laughing  gleefully). —  Oh,  Bernhard  -  what  kind  of  logic  is 
that! 

Bernhard. —  To  the  devil  with  the  logic!  It  is  a  matter  of  our  happi- 
ness! What  is  worth  more  to  you  —  your  faithfulness  to  principle,  or  you 
and  me.'' 

Hanna. —  You  and  me  and 

Bernhard  (almost  alarmed). —  What.'     Hanna You  —  you  will? 


Y 


es 


Hanna. —  Yes.     I  will.     I  will. 

Bernhard  (stormily). —  Oh,  you,  you That  was  then That 

was  what  you  wanted  to  say  to  me.^     That.^     Yes.'' 

Hanna. —  No  —  not  that.     But 

Bernhard.— We\U 

Hanna  (softly). —  Oh,  Bern,  I  for  myself  alone  —  I  would  never  have 

thought  of  it  —  but (Her  voice  has  become  softer,  she  hides  herself  on  his 

breast.     BEKJiHARD  looks  perplexed  for  a  moment.)     For  yourself  alone f 

Hanna  (reproachfully,  because  he  does  not  understand  her).—  Bernhard! 

Bernhard   (all  at  once   understands). —  Ah (Beside  himself  with 

happiness.)  Hans — !  Hans!  Now  you  are  my  wife.  Isn't  it  sot  (Sits 
dozvn  and  draws  her  on  his  knee.     Exulting.)     Now  you  are  my  wife! 

Alexander  (comes  back  out  of  breath). —  Thank  God  —  I  got  him. 
{Observes  the  two.)     Well.? 

Bernhard  (exulting). —  Doctor!  She  says  yes!  She  says  yes!  Now 
who  was  right.'     (Hanna  hides  her  head  on  Bernhard's  breast.) 

Alexander. —  I.     Sie  hat  eben  Humor. 

Curtain 


TO  A  JAPANESE  PRINT 

By  Mary  Colby  Thresher 

Upon  my  walls  where  daylight  throws 
Its  coldest,  clearest  beams,  I've  hung 

A  fine  old  print,  whose  color  glows 
Like  red  camelias  sunward  flung. 

A  woman's  high-bred,  pallid  face, 

A  flowing  gown  with  wondrous  curves, 

Naught  —  with  such  witchery  to  trace  — 
But  Kionaga's  pencil  serves. 

She  holds  a  flute  to  rosy  lips; 

Ah!  Be  her  tune  or  sad  or  gay; 
The  music  sweetly,  gently  dips 

Into  each  mood  of  every  day. 

Within  the  alcove's  dim  recess 

Gaze  Beatrice's  tragic  eyes; 
Here  Raphael's  Madonnas  bless. 

And  there  a  swift-winged  Eros  flies. 

With  trivial  thought  I  dare  not  pause 

Where  their  deep  eyes  search  out  my  heart. 

Before  their  shrine  the  common  flaws 
Of  human  life  seem  things  apart. 

But  you,  my  lady  of  the  print; 

So  Japanese  in  every  line; 
Your  waxen  face  gives  not  one  hint 

Of  hidden  grief  or  joy  divine. 

Your  eyes  inscrutable  look  far 

Beyond  the  flute  you  play  so  well. 

Perhaps  your  peace  I  sometimes  mar, 
It's  quite  impossible  to  tell. 

419 


1 


420  TO  A  JAPANESE  PRINT 

With  color  blocks  and  warm,  flat  tone 
They  printed  you;  and  I  may  read 

Into  your  face  what  I  alone 

Have  wished  to  see  or  cared  to  heed. 

So  hold  your  flute  to  rosy  lips 
And  be  your  tune  or  sad,  or  gay, 

The  music  sweetly,  gently  dips 
Into  each  mood  of  every  day. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  FINAL  PHILOSOPHY 

The  Ethics  of  a  Man  of  the  World 
By  Walter  Libby 

IN  a  number  of  the  Contemporary  Review  for  1908,*  Mr.  J.  Churton 
Collins  put  forward  the  theory:  That  Shakespeare  In  Prospero  de- 
picted himself  in  the  last  stage  of  his  career  when  his  work  likewise 
was  done  and  he  had  practically  taken  his  leave  of  life;  and  that  in 
*The  Tempest'  generally,  through  an  allegorical  presentation  of  the 
world  and  of  mankind,  he  summed  up  his  final  philosophy  and  de- 
livered his  final  gospel.  Such  a  thesis,  so  boldly  propounded,  naturally 
arouses  a  number  of  doubts  and  inquiries,  of  which  we  shall  call  attention 
to  but  one.  Did  the  critic  by  speaking  here  of  a  final  philosophy  mean  to 
close  the  discussion  of  the  philosophical  value  of  what  was  written  by 
Shakespeare  subsequently  to  the  writing  of  'The  Tempest'.^  If  so,  many 
fresh  difficulties  appear,  among  others  the  vexed  question  of  the  author- 
ship of  'The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen,'  which  drama,  as  we  have  elsewheref 
pointed  out,  rehandles  certain  problems  treated  in  the  earlier  play.  May 
one  not  assume  rather  that  the  term  final  philosophy,  as  used  in  the  Review, 
was  not  intended  to  preclude  later  modifications  or  developments?  At  the 
same  time  it  may  undoubtedly  be  taken  for  granted  that  the  philosophy 
contained  in  'The  Tempest'  will  not  in  our  day  receive  its  final  interpre- 
tation. The  very  best  we  can  hope  to  gain  by  a  study  of  this  play  is  the 
comprehensive  survey  of  life  of  a  man  of  superlative  genius,  the  restatement 
of  whose  general  views,  it  must  not  be  forgotten,  will  be  almost  necessarily 
tinged  by  the  philosophical  conceptions  of  the  present  day. 

A  few  months  before  the  magazine  article,  appeared  a  bookf  by  Professor 
Moulton  treating  of  Shakespeare  as  a  thinker,  and  expressing  views  not 
unlike  those  already  mentioned.  In  the  preface  we  find  that  the  inquiry 
proposed  in  the  work  is:  What  is  Shakespeare  as  a  thinker,  and  what  is 
his  philosophy  of  life  and  the  universe?  Toward  the  conclusion  of  the 
volume  we  are  told  that  it  is  with  'The  Tempest'  that  the  inquiry  ends. 
After  an  exposition,  in  some  degree  satisfactory,  of  the  drama,  the  author 
confesses  that  his  speculation  on  personal  providence  in  'The  Tempest' 
makes  the  natural  close  to  the  task  attempted  in  his  book. 

One  puts  down  both  the  book  and  the  article  with  a  sense  of  disappoint- 

*'Poetry  and  Symbolism,'  J.  Churton  Collins,  Contemporary  Review,  January,  1908,  pp.  65-83. 
fTwo  Fictitious  Ethical  Types,'  International  Journal  of  Ethics,  July,   1908,  pp.  466-475. 
J'Shakespeare  as  a  Dramatic  Thinker,'  R.  G.  Moulton,  New  York,  1907. 

421 


422  SH.\KF,SPF..\Rr<:'S   I-INAL  i'UlLOSOnn' 

mcnt;  for,  altliougli  the  authors  agree  that  this  play  contains  the  essence 
of  Shakespeare's  views  of  life,  ncitlier  gi\es  an\'  adequate  statement  of 
these  views.  The  one  writer  uses  the  term  Christian  in  indicating  the  tone 
of  the  drama,  and  ascribes  to  it  a  note  of  faith,  absolute  and  uncompro- 
mising; the  otlier  describes  the  reconciliation  of  the  persons  of  the  drama 
in  the  last  act  as  a  universal  restoration  embracing  both  the  worthy  and 
the  unworthy  characters.  Can  one  accept  these  expressions  as  the  satis- 
factory summary  of  the  life  philosophy  of  a  great  man  of  genius?  Do 
these  conclusions  not  rather  incline  us  to  acquiesce  in  the  traditional  belief 
that  Shakespeare  was  not  a  great  systematic  thinker,  and  that  to  hunt 
down  the  statement  of  liis  ultimate  philosophy  is  to  chase  a  will-o'-the- 
wisp?  In  fact,  Professor  Moulton  virtually  lapses  into  some  such  attitude, 
and  declines  to  consider  the  doctrinal  soundness  or  unsoundness  of  the 
all-embracing  indulgence  of  'The  Tempest,'  since  all  is  but  the  dramatiza- 
tion of  a  fancy.  Such  is  the  somewhat  hopeless  conclusion  of  a  work  that 
proposed  the  inquiry  as  to  Shakespeare's  philosophy  of  life  and  the  universe. 

Our  hopes  are  again  awakened,  however,  on  looking  into  an  earlier 
volume  of  Professor  Moulton's,*  to  find  some  space  devoted  to  a  considera- 
tion of  'The  Tempest.'  It  is  especially  encouraging  to  find  that  a  study  is 
made  of  the  central  idea  of  the  drama;  for  the  central  idea  of  a  production 
that  contains  the  final  philosophy  of  a  great  intellect  might  be  supposed  to 
prove  an  important  general  truth,  perhaps  of  some  novelty  for  the  age  in 
which  it  was  uttered.  Above  all,  this  critic's  admirable  method  of  seeking 
the  central  idea,  far  superior  to  the  procedure  of  Dowden  or  Lowell,  or 
any  of  those  who  have  committed  themselves  to  fanciful  interpretations 
of  the  play,  raises  anticipations  of  success.  A  central  idea,  we  are  told, 
to  be  worthy  of  the  name,  must  be  based,  not  on  the  authority  of  the 
expounder,  nor  even  on  the  beauty  of  the  idea  itself,  but  entirely  on  the 
degree  in  which  it  associates  with  the  details  of  which  the  play  is  made  up,  — 
a  matter  which  admits  of  accurate  examination.  It  is,  in  fact,  our  author 
says,  a  scientific  hypothesis,  and  the  details  are  the  phenomena  which 
the  hypothesis  has  to  explain;  none  of  these  details  must  he  outside  the  proposed 
unity.  For  this  clear  statement  that  seems  to  lift  the  question  ol  the 
determination  of  central  ideas  above  the  caprice  of  the  individual  com- 
mentator we  acknowledge  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  distinguished  writer 
who  has  formulated  it.  Let  us  see  how  well  the  idea  of  Enchantment, 
which  Professor  Moulton  accepts  as  the  central  idea  of  'The  Tempest,' 
fulfills  his  own  requirements. 

A  series  of  concessions  and  confessions  from  the  champion  of  the 
conception  of  Enchantment  as   the  central   unifying  idea   of  the   drama 

•'Shakespeare  as  a  Dramatic  Artist,'  R.  G.  Moulton. 


WALTER  LIBBY  423 

forms  of  itself  a  sufficient  refutation  of  its  adequacy.  First  of  all  a  distinc- 
tion must  be  made,  says  Professor  Moulton,  between  the  direct  and  the 
indirect  bearing  of  the  parts  on  the  main  theme.  The  greater  part  of  a 
work  of  art  may  be  expected  to  connect  itself  directly  with  its  central 
idea.  But  there  may  be  some  portions,  the  bearing  of  which  on  the  central 
idea  may  not  be  clear.  So  in  the  play  a  great  mass  of  details  presents 
enchantment.  Another  set  of  details,  numerous  and  scattered  through 
every  scene,  group  themselves  around  the  idea  of  remote  nature  needed 
as  a  background  for  the  Enchantment.  Once  more  (our  author  continues), 
the  underplot  —  that  is,  the  story  of  Ferdinand  and  Miranda,  and  the 
story  of  Caliban  with  the  sailors  —  is  seen  to  have  a  bearing  upon  the 
central  idea,  the  function  of  the  underplot  being,  not  to  depict  enchantment, 
but  to  introduce  some  elements  of  real  life  closely  akin  to  enchantment. 
Again,  we  find  that  he  acknowledges  the  second  scene  of  the  first  act, 
that  is,  five  hundred  lines  out  of  five  hundred  and  seventy  of  the  opening 
act  of  the  drama,  to  be  outside  the  scenic  unity  of  the  play.  Then,  finally, 
we  are  informed  that  in  every  romantic  drama  there  must  of  necessity  be 
a  large  number  of  mechanical  personages,  introduced  not  for  their  own 
sake  but  to  assist  the  presentation  of  others.  Such  personages  are  in  'The 
Tempest'  to  be  found  in  the  crowd  of  courtiers,  led  by  Gonzalo,  and  the 
crowd  of  sailors  led  by  the  boatswain.  Outside  the  movement  themselves, 
they  furnish  a  point  (Tappui  on  which  the  idea  rests. 

It  is  evident  that  in  choosing  as  the  central  idea  of  the  drama  a  con- 
ception that  fails  to  associate  with  so  many  details,  and  that  calls  for  so 
many  excuses  and  qualifications,  the  formulator  of  the  rather  stringent 
method  for  the  determination  of  central  ideas  has  unjustly  handicapped 
himself.  The  idea,  enchantment,  moreover,  seems  unworthy  to  form 
the  central  theme  of  a  drama  to  which  the  critic  assigns  so  great 
importance. 

If  now  we  compare  Professor  Moulton's  views  with  those  expressed 
in  Churton  Collins'  thesis,  it  appears  that  the  two  commentators  are 
substantially  agreed  that  the  play  under  discussion  contains  Shakespeare's 
final  philosophy,  but  that  neither  has  seriously  attempted  to  state  what 
that  philosophy  is.  Also  it  appears  that  Professor  Moulton,  in  seeking  the 
central  idea,  instead  of  bearing  in  mind  the  dramatist's  philosophy,  referred 
to  in  the  second  part  of  Collins'  thesis,  unduly  emphasizes  an  aspect  of 
that  character  in  which  the  dramatist,  according  to  the  first  part  of  the 
same  thesis,  traces  analogies  to  his  own.  If  this  thesis  is  to  be  sustained, 
as  we  believe  in  the  main  it  is,  there  remains  a  difficult  task,  namely,  to 
discover  a  central  idea  that  will  explain  the  relationship  of  every  act, 
scene,  and  character  in  the  play,  and  at  the  same  time  prove  of  sufficient 


424  SHAKESPEARE'S  FINAL  PHILOSOPHY 

importance  to  rank  as  the  general  view  of  mankind  of  tlie  genius  described 
by  Emerson  as  'inconceivably  wise.' 

Let  us  see  whether  through  an  impartial  analysis  of  the  play  by  scenes 
and  acts  we  can  arrive  inductively  at  such  an  hypothesis  as  Professor 
Moulton  deems  possible. 

The  first  scene  of  all  represents  mariners  and  courtiers  on  board  ship 
in  the  midst  of  a  tempest.  In  a  search  for  the  central  idea  this  short  scene 
cannot  be  neglected,  as  it  seems  to  give  the  drama  its  name.  The  two 
groups  of  personages  are  represented  in  violent  opposition.  On  the  one 
side  stand  the  king  and  his  company;  on  the  other  the  master  of  the  ship, 
the  boatswain,  and  the  rest  of  the  mariners.  The  most  of  the  dialogue 
consists  of  a  stormy  exchange  of  compliments  between  the  boatswain 
and  the  passengers.  Alonso,  Gonzalo,  Sebastian,  and  Antonio  engage  him 
in  turn,  but  the  seaman,  a  natural,  rough  and  active  character,  holds  his 
own  against  them  all.  The  scene  portrays  the  antithesis  between  the 
conventional  and  natural  on  the  eve  of  a  social  crisis,  such  as  England 
experienced  in  the  seventeenth  century,  or  such  as  France  experienced 
in  the  eighteenth. 

In  the  second  scene  a  new  set  of  characters  is  introduced, —  the  dwellers 
on  the  island.  Ferdinand  appears  toward  the  end  of  the  scene,  and  serves 
to  bind  together  the  parts  of  the  first  act.  He  takes  no  part  in  the  dialogue 
of  the  first  scene,  and  his  youth  makes  him  the  least  conventional  member 
of  his  father's  court.  In  the  second  scene,  however,  our  attention  is  first 
taken  up  w^ith  Miranda,  Caliban  and  Ariel,  under  the  control  of  Prospero. 
The  contrast  between  Caliban  and  Ariel  is  striking,  and  may  be  indicated 
by  the  terms  sensual  and  spiritual.  Intermediate  between  these  extremes 
stands  the  third  natural  character  of  the  island,  Miranda,  a  girl  of  fourteen 
or  fifteen,  as  we  are  told.  The  three  mark  out  a  line  of  development, 
Caliban  being  evidently  the  most  primitive  and  Ariel  the  most  highly 
evolved.  We  are  given  an  account  of  the  history  and  progress  of  each 
under  the  guidance  of  Prospero.  Finally  we  get  a  hint  in  the  love  story 
of  Ferdinand  and  Miranda  of  how  society  in  general  is  to  be  brought  within 
the  control  of  Prospero.  To  sum  up,  the  second  scene  presents  natural 
characters,  contrasted  as  sensual  and  spiritual,  and  undergoing  a  process 
of  development. 

The  first  act,  then,  represents  society  at  a  critical  stage,  when  there 
is  a  dangerous  lack  of  harmony  between  the  conventional  and  the  natural 
and  when  disaster  can  be  averted  only  by  a  genius  aware  of  the  line  of 
progress  and  armed  with  sufficient  power  to  control  the  various  social 
forces.  In  1613,  the  date  at  which  'The  Tempest'  was  acted  at  the  English 
court  before  Prince  Charles  and  others  of  the  royal  family,  England  was 


WALTER  LIBBY  425 

facing  such  a  social  crisis,  which  might  have  been  met  without  disaster, 
if  those  gifted  with  wisdom  and  foresight  had  had  the  power  to  control 
the  situation.  This  fact  may  help  to  account  for  the  personal  note  so  gen- 
erally recognized  in  the  play. 

In  the  first  scene  of  the  second  act  we  find  the  king  and  his  company 
on  the  island  and  within  the  sphere  of  Prospero's  influence.  We  have  here 
a  group  of  the  so-called  mechanical  personages,  to  show  whose  relevance 
to  the  essential  unity  of  the  play  is  one  of  the  aims  of  this  discussion.  We 
have  already  seen  Alonso,  Gonzalo,  and  the  other  courtiers  placed  in 
opposition  to  a  group  of  natural  characters.  Now  we  find  them  treated 
analytically  in  relation  to  each  other.  The  main  antithesis  is  between 
Gonzalo  on  the  the  one  hand  and  Antonio  and  Sebastian  on  the  other, 
i.  e.,  the  courtiers  are  differentiated  as  altruistic  and  egoistic.  The  cynicism, 
the  incredulity  and  restlessness  of  the  latter,  and  the  reverence,  credulity 
and  conservatism  of  the  former  need  not  delay  us  at  this  point.  That  the 
altruistic  element  in  society,  here  represented  by  Gonzalo,  proves  to  be 
the  ally  of  the  established  power  in  a  time  of  social  unrest,  will  suggest  to 
the  reader  many  historic  examples  of  the  attitude  of  the  Christian  Church 
toward  the  threatened  monarchies  of  Europe.  Let  us  further  note  that  the 
dialogue  of  this  scene,  besides  serving  to  distinguish  the  courtiers  as  altru- 
istic and  egoistic,  touches  on  a  series  of  topics  whose  bearing  on  the  drama 
as  a  whole  has  never  been  explained.  These  themes  are  the  credibility 
of  the  miraculous,  conventional  marriage,  and  Gonzalo's  Utopian  common- 
wealth. That  the  honest  old  counsellor  speaks  sympathetically  of  miracles 
does  not  merely  strengthen  the  analogy  between  his  mental  state  and  that 
of  conservative  Christianity,  but  shows  him  in  reality  quite  as  well  prepared 
for  a  more  highly  developed  social  condition  as  the  more  restless  and  skep- 
tical courtiers.  Gonzalo  has,  in  fact,  his  own  dreams  of  an  ideal  common- 
wealth, weak  in  logic,  but  strong  in  good-will.  The  discussion  of  the  con- 
ventional marriage  of  Claribel  and  the  king  of  Tunis  affords  an  admirable 
contrast  to  the  very  natural  love  affair  of  Miranda  and  Ferdinand  in  the 
previous  scene.  However,  the  main  feature  of  the  first  scene  of  the  second 
act  is  the  recognition  of  two  parties  among  the  courtiers,  namely,  the 
altruistic  and  the  egoistic. 

The  second  scene  of  the  second  act  deals  with  the  other  end  of  the 
social  scale,  represented  by  Stephano,  Trinculo,  and  Caliban.  The  last 
named  differs  from  the  other  two  as  primitive  from  degenerate,  or,  more 
generally  stated,  natural  from  conventional.  But  Trinculo,  the  jester,  is 
distinguished  from  Stephano,  the  butler,  as  altruistic  from  egoistic.  In  fact, 
we  have  here  a  burlesque  scene,  which  applies  to  the  less  refined,  the  categories 
under  which  the  other  members  of  society  have  already  been  treated. 


426  SH AKKSPI'.ARK'S  FINAL  nill^OSOPHV 

TIk"  second  act,  it  will  be  observed,  deals  with  those  members  of 
stvicty  in  need  of  reformation.  They  are  on  the  island  and  in  the  power 
of  Prospero,  a  fact  kept  in  mind  by  the  invisible  presence  of  Ariel  in  the 
first  scene,  and  by  the  presence  of  Caliban  in  the  second  scene.  Caliban 
is  the  onh'  islander  appearing  in  the  second  act.  He  is  a  natural  character, 
neither  altruistic  nor  egoistic.  It  is  his  sensualism  that  is  in  need  of  cor- 
rection. In  the  second  scene  he  serves  the  same  purpose  dramatically 
as  the  mention  of  Claribel's  marriage  does  in  the  previous  scene,  that  is, 
carries  over  the  distinction  between  the  conventional  and  the  natural 
developed    in    the   first   act. 

With  the  beginning  of  the  third  act  is  reached  the  turning  point  of 
the  action.  The  problem  has  been  stated,  and  we  look  for  a  solution. 
How  may  society,  threatened  by  conventionalism,  cynicism,  incredulity, 
selfishness  and  sensuality,  be  brought  to  a  wholesome  state.'*  In  the  first 
scene  of  this  third  act  only  three  characters  take  part,  Ferdinand,  Miranda, 
and  the  unseen  Prospero.  In  one  sense  it  is  the  betrothal  scene.  The 
emphatic  place  it  occupies  in  the  construction  of  the  drama,  and  Prospero's 
decided  and  repeated  statements  as  to  the  importance  he  attaches  to  the 
love  affair  seem  to  refute  the  contention  that  the  story  of  Ferdinand  and 
Miranda  is  a  mere  subsidiary  part  of  the  play.  The  main  question  in  seek- 
ing the  connection  of  this  scene  with  the  scenes  already  reviewed  is  whether 
there  stands  revealed  here  some  means  of  overcoming  selfishness  and  sen- 
suality. It  is  as  an  antidote  to  the  former  evil  that  romantic  love  is  in 
this  place  portrayed.  Under  this  spell  the  young  prince  submits  to  an 
imposition  he  could  not  otherwise  have  endured.  The  dialogue  employs 
the  language  of  altruism,  —  a  language  more  surprising,  of  course,  in  Fer- 
dinand than  in  Miranda.  It  is  the  naturalness,  freedom  from  convention, 
of  her  social  attitude  that  is  in  her  case  most  striking.  From  the  instinctive 
union  of  two  such  natural  and  spiritual  beings  Prospero  seems  to  hope  for 
a  race  of  regenerated  descendants.  One  might  sum  up  this  scene  as  por- 
traying, in  romantic  and  spiritual  love,  the  great  means  of  social  ameliora- 
tion. Ideal  union  is  contrasted  in  the  play  not  only  with  the  conventional 
marriage  of  Claribel  already  referred  to,  but  also  with  the  uncontrolled 
brutality  of  Caliban. 

We  return  in  the  second  scene  to  the  lower  orders  of  society.  Caliban, 
turning  against  Trinculo,  gives  his  whole  devotion  to  Stephano,  by  whose 
apparent  strength  and  courage  he  is  won.  Under  the  leadership  of  this 
low  egoist  a  conspiracy  is  formed  against  the  progressive  forces  of  society, 
but  Prospero  is  able  to  bring  about  dissension  among  the  conspirators, 
and  to  draw  them  from  their  selfish  purposes  by  the  allurements  of  sense. 
We  discover,  then,  in  this  scene  how  the  egoism  of  the  primitive  and  degen- 


\ 


WALTER  LIBBY  427 

erate  is  controlled.  Their  sensuality  is  a  more  dangerous  obstacle  to  the 
progress  of  civilization  than  their  selfishness. 

In  the  third  scene  of  the  third  act  the  king  and  his  followers  are  brought 
under  the  subjection  of  Prospero.  This  implies  that  the  fundamental 
faults  that  the  courtiers  are  represented  —  in  the  first  scene  of  the  second 
act  —  as  characterized  by,  are  now  combated  by  the  means  at  the  magician's 
command.  So  it  proves  that  the  selfish  aggression  of  Antonio  and  Sebas- 
tian is  frustrated;  and  the  faith  of  Gonzalo  in  the  Wonderful  being  con- 
firmed, the  cynicism  and  incredulity  of  his  opponents  is  rebuked.  The 
conventional  Alonso  is  made  remorseful  at  the  mention  of  his  lost  son, 
and  he  and  his  two  confederates  are  driven  desperate  at  the  recital  of  their 
misdeeds.  In  short,  in  this  scene  there  is  overcome  the  resistance  oflFered 
to  social  progress  by  the  selfishness  of  the  upper  classes. 

We  see,  then,  in  the  third  act  the  checking  of  extreme  selfishness  in  order 
that  the  evolution  of  society  may  not  be  interfered  with. 

The  fourth  act  consists  of  only  one  scene,  which,  however,  is  divided 
into  two  distinct  parts,  that  which  deals  with  Ferdinand  and  Miranda, 
and  that  which  deals  with  Caliban  and  his  companions.  To  begin  with, 
the  important  part  played  by  true  marriage  in  racial  progress  is  more 
than  ever  emphasized.  Ferdinand  is  admonished  to  hold  his  affections 
in  check.  The  young  people  are  rewarded  by  the  magician  with  a  pageant 
in  which  Juno,  Ceres,  and  other  mythological  personages  meet  to  celebrate 
a  contract  of  true  love.  Venus  and  Cupid  are  expressly  debarred  from 
the  celebration,  there  being  preserved  even  in  this  fanciful  part  of  the 
play  a  wonderful  unity  of  action.  In  the  midst  of  the  pageant  Prospero 
is  deeply  agitated  by  the  recollection  of  the  sensual  Caliban  and  his  fellow 
conspirators.  On  their  entrance  we  find  that  Stephano,  through  the  in- 
fluence of  his  weaker  companion,  is  attracted  by  the  glittering  spoil  that 
Prospero  employs  to  mislead  them.  Caliban  is  left  without  leadership, 
and  the  whole  party  is  subjugated  by  force.  The  problem  of  the  sensuality 
of  the  primitive,  which  is  here  glanced  at,  receives  a  somewhat  different 
treatment  in  'The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen.' 

The  fourth  act  treats  obviously  the  question  of  the  control  of  sensuality. 

The  fifth  act  also  consists  of  a  single  scene,  and  in  it  every  character 
of  the  drama  appears.  The  various  types  are  in  reconcilement  under  the 
control  of  Prospero.  Thte  penitent  Alonso  asks  pardon  for  his  aggression 
against  Milan;  Antonio  and  Sebastian  are  rebuked  for  their  selfishness; 
Stephano  experiences  a  reaction  to  an  exaggerated  altruism;  and  even 
Caliban  promises  betterment.  The  mood  of  the  scene  reaches  its  culmina- 
tion in  the  perfect  harmony  between  Ferdinand  and  Miranda.  'What 
ensues,'  says  Professor  Moulton,  speaking  of  this  part  of  'The  Tempest,' 


428  SHARKSPKARI'/S  FINAL  PHILOSOPHY 

'gradually  unfolds  itself  as  a  universal  restoration,  embracing  not  only 
the  hoK'  Gonzalo  and  the  remorseful  Alonso,  but  also  the  hardened  Sebas- 
tian and  Antonio,  Caliban  the  gross,  Stephano  the  drunken.'  This  view, 
already  referred  to,  promised  to  reveal  an  idea  more  comprehensive  and 
unifying  than  enchantment.  The  very  term  restoration  implies  a  previous 
state  of  comparative  stability  and  an  intermediate  state  of  unrest.  Such 
a  cycle  of  change  when  in  the  direction  of  progress  and  improvement,  is 
what  we  call  development.  Glancing  back  at  the  contents  of  the  five  acts; 
society  portrayed  as  conventional  and  natural,  society  portrayed  as  altru- 
istic and  egoistic,  conventional  egoism  controlled,  natural  and  degenerate 
sensualism  controlled,  and  a  restoration  embracing  all  types  of  human 
character,  we  see  that  the  development  implied  is  social  development. 
This  is  the  central  idea  of  'The  Tempest.'* 

We  have  discovered,  then,  in  social  development  a  central  idea  that 
fixes  the  relationship  of  every  scene,  act  and  character  in  the  drama,  with- 
out any  apologies  for  parts  lying  outside  the  scenic  unity  of  the  play,  and 
without  any  recognition  of  groups  of  mechanical  personages.  In  fact,  it 
is  the  groups  of  characters  that  seem  to  us  of  primary  importance  in  this 
portrayal  of  the  social  world.  The  question  remains  to  be  answered:  Is 
social  evolution  as  here  set  forth  by  Shakespeare  an  idea  worthy  to  rank 
as  the  final  philosophy  of  a  great  man  of  genius.^ 

In  answering  this  difBcult  question  in  the  affirmative  we  are  com- 
pelled to  recognize  in  the  first  place  that  the  scheme  of  social  evolution 
contained  in  'The  Tempest'  adumbrates  a  complete  system  of  ethics. 
It  is  a  comprehensive  survey  of  mankind;  typical  human  beings  are  por- 
trayed in  typical  moral  situations.  In  one  sense  it  can  be  called  the  ethics 
of  a  man  of  the  world,  so  novel  as  even  in  our  day  not  to  carry  conviction 
in  didactic  form.  From  the  point  of  view  of  the  writer  this  philosophy  of 
human  conduct  underlay  the  calm  and  beneficent  art  of  Shakespeare; 
latent  in  his  earlier  works,  it  became  more  conscious  —  more  distinctly 
a  philosophy  —  in  the  productions  of  his  maturity.  In  the  second  place 
let  us  emphasize  the  fact  that  this  system  of  ethics  is  a  system  of  evolu- 
tionary ethics.  The  poet's  tolerance  for  man's  frailty,  temperamental 
to  begin  with,  found  finally  its  justification  in  the  principle  that  in  the 
process  of  development  sensuality  undergoes  refinement,  and  that  the 
race  gradually  becomes  less  brutal  and  more  spiritual.  This  view,  which 
forms  the  basis  of  much  in  'The  Tempest,'  enables  us,  as  it  did  Shakespeare, 
to  regard  the  occasional  recrudescence  in  human  society  of  gross  animal 
instincts  with  a  certain  degree  of  equanimity.     Or,  again,  the  part  that 

*For  detailed  evidence  of  what  is  here  stated  merely  in  outline  see:  'Shakespeare  and  Psychognosis,' 
M.  F.  Libby,  University  of  Colorado  Studies,  March,  August,  December,  1906,  and  June,  1907. 


WALTER  LIBBY  429 

selfishness  has  played  in  the  struggle  for  existence  once  realized,  one  can 
never  return  to  that  dualism  that  would  utterly  destroy  the  egoistic,  and 
preserve  only  the  altruistic.  As  a  concomitant  of  his  philosophy  we  find 
in  the  works  of  Shakespeare  a  breadth  and  catholicity  of  moral  judgment 
more  frequently  sympathized  with  than  accounted  for.  It  is  this  very 
tolerance,  no  doubt,  that  makes  Churton  Collins  speak  of  the  Christian 
spirit  of  the  philosophy  of  'The  Tempest,'  but  causes  Professor  Moulton 
to  question  the  soundness  of  the  dramatist's  doctrines.  In  the  third  place, 
in  this  system  of  ethics  human  character  and  conduct  are  regarded  as 
social  rather  than  individual  matters.  At  first  glance  Antonio  seems 
scarcely  to  deserve  the  tolerance  that  Prospero  extends  to  him,  but,  as 
a  social  factor,  is  not  Antonio  needed  to  balance  the  extreme  altruism  of 
Gonzalo,  who  is  as  far  removed  as  he  from  the  aesthetic  moral  ideal  indi- 
cated in  our  analysis  by  the  term  natural.''  Again,  is  it  not  dangerously 
liberal  to  tolerate  characters  like  Stephano  and  Caliban.'*  It  certainly 
would  be,  if  the  social  harmony  were  not  restored  by  characters  of  weak 
appetite  like  Adrian  and  Ariel.  Finally  let  us  recognize  that  there  is 
severity  as  well  as  tolerance  in  the  evolutionary  ethics  of  the  play.  Antonio 
is  forced  to  relinquish  the  dukedom  he  had  usurped.  Sebastian  feels  the 
sting  of  remorse.  Alonso  begs  for  pardon,  Caliban  and  his  companions 
are  sternly  punished.  The  existence  of  sin  and  degeneration  is  recognized 
in  Prospero's  moral  state,  and  all  wrong-doers  meet  with  social  disappro- 
bation.    In  fine,  the  play  contains  a  coherent  and  significant  moral  philosophy. 

In  the  pursuit,  then,  of  the  central  idea  of  'The  Tempest'  we  have 
come  upon  a  conception  that  has  claim  to  rank  as  a  philosophical  view  of 
some  importance.  The  resemblance  between  this  comprehensive  survey 
of  life  and  the  philosophy  of  the  present  day  that  has  been  stimulated  by 
modern  biological  research  has  perhaps  been  sufficiently  indicated.  The 
calm  faith  and  sober  optimism  that  mark  the  drama  have  their  analogy 
in  the  tone  of  fixed  conviction  of  the  concluding  sentences  of  the  nineteenth 
century  gospel  of  human  origins.  'Man  may  be  excused,'  writes  the 
modern  naturalist,  'for  feeling  some  pride  at  having  risen,  though  not 
through  his  own  exertions,  to  the  very  summit  of  the  organic  scale;  and 
the  fact  of  his  having  thus  risen,  instead  of  having  been  aboriginally  placed 
there,  may  give  him  hope  for  a  still  higher  destiny  in  the  distant  future. 
But  we  are  not  here  concerned  with  hopes  or  fears,  only  with  the  truth 

so  far  as  our  reason  permits  us  to  discover  it .'     For  the  poet,  on  the 

other  hand,  hopes  and  fears,  and  truth  as  it  appeals  to  the  imagination, 
are  legitimate  matters  of  treatment  in  connection  with  the  destiny  of  man. 

One  must  not  allow  himself,  however,  to  be  tempted  into  tracing  too 
close  a  resemblance  between  the  views  of  Darwin  and  those  of  Shakespeare. 


430  SHAKESPEARF/S  FINAL  PHILOSOPHY 

No  doubt,  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  understood  individual  character,  and 
understood  it  in  its  development,  the  fact  that  in  the  London  of  his  time 
he  had  under  daily  observation  human  society  in  all  its  stratifications, 
and  the  fact  that  his  imagination  was  kindled  by  the  discovery  of  distant 
lands  and  primitive  peoples  and  the  record  of  voyages  no  less  stimulating 
to  his  mind  than  the  expedition  of  the  Beagle  to  that  of  the  modern  natu- 
ralist, might  lend  plausibility  to  the  claim  that  the  Elizabethan  poet-ph- 
ilosopher anticipated  the  theories  of  nineteenth  century  science  as  far  as 
they  concerned  the  field  in  which  he  was  master.  Nevertheless,  the  danger 
of  reading  into  the  literature  of  the  past  the  ideas  of  the  present  must 
give  us  pause.  We  arc  obliged,  of  course,  as  already  recognized,  in  trying 
to  realize  what  Shakespeare  means  for  us,  to  employ  the  standpoint  of 
the  present,  but  we  must  at  the  same  time  be  warned  by  such  absurdity 
as  that  of  Sir  Daniel  Wilson,  who  referred  to  Caliban  as  the  Missing  Link, 
disregarding  the  fact  that  terms  that  seem  essential  to  one  generation 
of  thinkers  are  but  an  ephemeral  jargon  in  which  partial  theories  express 
themselves.  Just  as  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  ascribe  to  Rousseau  the  honor 
of  having  anticipated  modern  biology  because  what  he  designated  nature 
might  very  well  be  referred  to  as  congenital  organization  or  hereditary 
predisposition,  so  it  would  be  altogether  misleading  to  infer  from  a  study 
of  'The  Tempest'  that  Shakespeare  was  the  apostle  of  organic  evolution, 
or  of  sexual  equality,  or  of  eugenics,  or  of  a  system  of  natural  education. 
Let  us  look  rather  to  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century  if 
we  would  see  the  true  significance  in  the  history  of  European  thought 
of  Shakespeare's  general  views  of  character  and  conduct.  His  poetical 
art  stood  in  the  same  relation  to  the  Renaissance  period  as  did  that  of  Dante 
to  the  Middle  Ages, —  an  adequate  expression  and  culmination.  The  former 
solved  the  ethical  dualism  established  by  the  latter.  Throughout  the 
renaissance  we  find  an  attempted  readjustment  of  western  culture  to 
oriental,  of  paganism  to  Christianity.  About  a  struggle  for  a  harmonious 
solution  of  this  antithesis  the  history  of  civilization  during  may  centuries 
might  be  rewritten.  The  conflict  can  be  observed  in  almost  every  depart- 
ment of  human  activity.  That  part  of  culture  history  that  deals  with 
painting  oflFers  an  illustration.  One  can  trace  a  progressive  movement 
in  art  from  the  first  feeble  attempts  at  a  revival  of  the  antique  to  the 
finished  triumphs  of  the  high  renaissance.  In  the  midst  of  this  movement, 
as,  for  example,  in  Botticelli,  we  perceive  the  new  spirit  not  yet  clarified; 
there  is  evidence  of  premature  liberty  not  altogether  at  ease  with  itself, 
a  joyousness  held  in  leash  by  a  puritan  conscience.  How  different  is  the 
spirit  of  freedom  with  which  Raphael  treats  both  Christian  and  pagan 
subjects.     Similarly  in  the  field  of  literature.     In  Chaucer,  as  in  Botticelli, 


WALTER  LIBBY  431 

one  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  old  in  struggle  with  the  new.  But  in  no  artist 
do  we  find  so  complete  a  solution  of  the  antithesis  as  in  Shakespeare.  In 
him  the  harmonious  blending  of  two  opposed  influences  is  owing,  in  our 
opinion,  to  the  comprehensiveness  of  that  philosophy  which  comes  to  its 
fullest    expression    in    'The    Tempest.' 

Does  the  fact  that  Shakespeare  solved  the  riddle  of  the  renaissance 
imply  that  his  moral  philosophy  is  destined  to  supersede  Christian  ethical 
doctrine  by  the  very  fact  that  it  comprehends  it?  This  is  a  difficult  question, 
the  answer  to  which  would  largely  depend  on  the  definition  of  the  terms 
employed.  Tolstoi  with  great  courage,  and,  as  it  seems  to  us,  with  great 
insight,  recognizes  a  difference  between  his  own  philosophy  and  that  of 
the  writer  whom  Carlyle  called  'the  greatest  of  all  intellects.'  It  is  a  real 
difference  that  no  true  Shakespearian  would  care  to  conceal.  Tolstoi's 
proudest  claim  is  to  have  returned  to  the  moral  teaching  of  the  first  cen- 
tury. If  his  is  a  pure,  it  is  at  the  same  time  a  primitive  Christianity. 
While,  if  Collins  is  right  in  applying  the  term  Christian  to  Shakespeare's 
moral  philosophy  as  revealed  in  'The  Tempest,'  one  must  admit  that  the 
Christianity  is  a  highly  evolved  sort,  made  possible  by  sixteen  centuries 
of  European  culture.  This  is  but  another  way  of  saying  that  latent  in 
the  pure  Christian  doctrine  is  the  highest  ethical  truth  known  to  man. 
From  another  point  of  view,  however,  Shakespeare's  philosophy  might  be 
regarded  as  an  evolved  Hellenism,  a  development  of  that  wisdom  of  the 
Greek  poets  and  teachers  that  the  Christian  church  has  at  times  recognized 
as  an  ally  of  its  own. 

Finally,  how  would  a  man  of  great  genius,  and  of  great  power  as  an 
artist,  holding  the  moral  philosophy  that  we  have  here  ascribed  to  Shake- 
speare, view  the  question  of  his  own  responsibility?  What  would  be  his 
own  ethical  attitude  toward  the  conduct  of  life?  At  first  sight  one  is  tempted 
to  answer,  a  negative  one.  His  complete  faith  in  the  process  of  develop- 
ment might  seem  to  justify  an  attitude  of  laissez  faire.  Such  nonchalance 
Emerson  and  others  believe  to  be  characteristic  of  Shakespeare.  The 
resemblance,  however,  that  has  generally  been  recognized  between  Shake- 
speare and  Prospero  suggests  an  altogether  different  answer.  In  the  play 
Prospero  appears  as  the  zealous  guide  of  the  evolutionary  process,  em- 
phasizing as  means  of  advance  'education  and  selection  by  marriage,* 
the  only  reasonable  means  according  to  the  opinion  of  a  recent  biologist* 
of  bettering  the  inherent  qualities  of  the  human  stock.  In  the  civilized 
world  by  the  spell  of  his  beneficent  art  Shakespeare  has  advanced  moral 
progress  as  his  generous  and  philosophical  mind  conceived  it.  Thus  'The 
Tempest,'  expressing  Shakespeare's  final  philosophy,  has  a  personal  quality, 

•Alfred  Russell  Wallace,  'Evolution  and  Character,'  Fortnightly  Review,  January,  1908,  pp.  1-24. 


432  SHAKESPEARE'S  FINAL  PHILOSOPHY 

and  contains  a  calm  and  majestic  answer  to  the  challenge  of  the  New 
England  moralist:  When  the  question  is  to  life,  and  its  materials,  and  its 
auxiliaries,  how  does  he  profit  me? 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE 
HOUSE* 

A  Play  in  One  Act 

By  Homer  Hildreth  Howard 

CHARACTERS 

Mrs.  Barnes,  to  be  played  with  subdued  intensity,  and    half-concealed 

sadness. 
The  Messenger  Boy. 

Mrs.  Keegan,  an  Irishwoman  who  is  not  intended  to  be  comic. 
Jim  Barnes,  a  drunkard  who  is  not  intended  to  be  comic. 
The  Baby. 

Time  —  the  present. 
Place  —  any  large  city. 

Scene 

A  basement  room  in  a  tenement  house.  The  room  is  lighted  by 
two  half  windows,  one  right  and  one  left,  rear,  and  by  the  glass  which  fills 
the  upper  half  of  the  door,  center,  rear.  This  door  is  at  the  bottom  of  a  flight 
of  stairs  leading  down  from  the  sidewalk.  Through  this  door  one  sees  a  gray 
stone  wall  surrounded  by  an  iron  railing. 

There  is  a  stove  down  left,  and  a  large  wooden  rocker  near  it.  Up  stage 
is  a  small  stand  with  a  bucket  and  basin.  A  cupboard  with  china  is  against 
the  right  wall,  down  stage,  and  near  it  a  table  with  a  red  and  white  cloth,  and  two 
wooden  chairs.  A  door  up  right  leads  to  a  bedroom,  a  table  under  the  short 
window,  right,  is  piled  with  boxes  full  of  artificial  flowers.  The  room  is  poor 
but  extremely  neat. 

At  rise  a  woman  in  black  and  white  calico  is  discovered  at  the  table  working 
rapidly  making  flowers.  After  a  moment  she  stops  and  takes  up  a  cabinet-size 
photograph  and  looks  at  it.  She  makes  as  if  to  kiss  it  but  stops,  puts  it  down, 
and  begins  working  rapidly.  A  messenger  boy  appears  at  the  door,  center, 
rear.     A  knock. 

The  woman. —  Come  in! 

( The  boy  comes  in  and  the  noise  of  the  street  with  him.) 

•'The  Child  in  the  House'  was  produced  for  the  first  time  at  the  Toy  Theatre,  Boston,  April   15. 
1912. 

Copyright,  IQ13,  by  Homer  H.  Howard. 

433 


4.>4  Tin-   Clinic  I\  TWV.  TiorsE 

Tkr  boy. —  llullo,  Mrs.  Barnes.     Any  flowers  ready  for  me  to-day.'* 

Afrs.  Bamts. —  Shut  the  door,  Jack.  {tVcarily.)  When  Tin  workin' 
night  and  day  on  these  flowers  tliat  noise  drives  me  crazy.  {lie  shuts  the 
door,  she  points  to  three  large  boxes  on  the  table.)  Theni's  ready.  Isn't  tliere 
no  message  nor  orders  from  tlie  firm.^ 

The  boy. —  Sure.  There's  always  orders  for  you.  (He  gives  her  an 
envelope  an  J  gets  dozen  the  boxes  while  she  reads  the  note.  In  doing  so  he 
brushes  the  photograph  onto  the  floor,  picks  it  up  and  fingers  it.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  It's  carnations  they  want  this  time.  They've  forgot 
at  tlie  factory. 

The  boy  {u-ho  has  been  looking  at  the  photograph  reads  from  the  back  of  it). — 
George  Barnes,  W  iUiam  Barnes.     Was  these  your  boys,  Mrs.  Barnes.'' 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  They  were  that.  (She  looks  at  him  and  comes  over 
beside  him.)  William  —  he'd  'a'  been  about  your  size  by  now  if  he'd  'a' 
lived  —  George  was  younger — I've  often  looked  at  you  when  you  come 
for  the  flowers  —  and  thought  of  my  William.  [She  reaches  for  the  photo- 
graph.) I  just  couldn't  keep  from  thinkin'  about  them  a  lot  to-day,  some- 
how, and  I  had  this  out  lookin'  at  it.  It  don't  do  no  good — just  makes 
me  sad-like.  {As  she  takes  the  picture  she  takes  the  boy's  hand.  He  is  shy 
at  first.)  Jack  —  Jack —  {she  draws  him  toward  her).  How  red  and  cold 
your  hands  is!     Ain't  you  no  mittens ."^ 

The  boy. —  No,  Mrs.  Barnes. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Well,  you  come  right  over  here  to  the  stove  and  get 
'em  warm.  {She  leads  him  to  the  big  chair  by  the  stove  and  has  him  spread 
out  his  hands  to  the  warmth.  She  stands  looking  at  him.)  Just  wait  till  I 
see  —  {she  goes  to  the  cupboard  and  from  a  drawer  she  brings  a  pair  of  knitted 
mittens).  Jack  —  {she  comes  back  to  him)  I  couldn't  never  give  these  away. 
{She  looks  at  him  for  a  moment.)  But  you  may  as  well  have  them  —  they  was 
William's.     {She  gives  them.) 

The  boy  (getting  up). —  Gee,  you're  good,  Mrs.  Barnes.  {He  puts  his 
hands  on  her  arms  and  looks  up  at  her.  She  is  greatly  pleased  and  puts  an 
arm  around  his  neck.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Is  your  mother  good  to  you.^ 

The  boy. —  Y-es.  (Quickly.)  Not  so  good  to  me  as  you  always  are, 
though.     There's  others  besides  me  at  home,  you  know. 

Mrs.  Barnes  {gathering  him  into  her  arms). —  Oh,  Jack!  {Stroking  his 
hair.  To  herself.)  Why  is  it  that  them  that  has  'em  can't  be  good  to  'em.** 
And  them  as  would  be  good  to  'em  can't  have  'em.^  {Rousing  herself.) 
Well,  well,  I  must  go  back  to  my  flowers.     (She  goes  reluctantly.) 

The  boy. —  My  mother  does  washing. 
Mrs.  Barnes. —  She  does .'' 


HOMER  HILDRETH  HOWARD  435 

The  hoy. —  I  don't  suspect  she  makes  as  much  money  as  you  do  with 
the  flowers.      {He  is  putting  on  his  mittens  and  gathering  up  the  boxes.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  I  do  earn  a  tidy  bit.  With  what  we've  put  by  now, 
we  could  'a'  raised  our  boys  respectable-Hke.  Jim's  been  steady  now  a  good 
little  while.  {A  sigh.)  That's  how  it  goes.  {She  hesitates.)  Jack,  won't 
you  kiss  me.'' 

{He  hangs  back  a  moment  and  then  comes  to  her  and  kisses  her.  She 
holds  him  in  her  arms  a  moment,  then  he  gathers  up  his  boxes  and  goes.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  They're  bulky-like,  but  not  heavy.  {She  goes  to  hold 
the  door  open  for  him.)     Good-bye,  Jack. 

The  boy  (from  outside). —  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Barnes. 

{She  watches  him,  then  comes  back  to  the  table  humming  happily  and 
begins  rapid  work.  Her  fingers  work  more  and  more  slowly,  and  the  humming 
grows  more  and  more  halting.  She  stops  and  looks  at  the  picture,  then  puts  it 
down  resolutely  and  goes  to  work.  A  woman  appears  at  the  door.  She  comes 
in.  She  is  dressed  in  black  and  carries  a  large  bunch  of  half-withered  pink 
carnations.     She  sits  in  the  rocking-chair.) 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Good-afternoon,  Mrs.  Barnes.  I've  just  passed  that 
boy  from  the  factory,  and  he  with  three  big  boxes.  Faith,  Mrs.  Barnes, 
it's  not  another  married  woman  in  the  neighborhood  works  as  hard  as  you  do. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  My  husband's  as  good  as  any  woman's  in  the  whole 
section,  Mrs.  Keegan,  if  it  wasn't  for  the  drink. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  It's  beasts  they  are  all  of  'em  fast  enough  —  but  it's 
not  without  'em  we  women  could  be  doin'  at  all. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  We  ought  not  to  have  to  depend  on  'em. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  That's  some  of  the  advancin'  ideas  you're  after  gettin* 
at  the  settlement  house. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  But  don't  I  myself  earn  as  much  as  Jim.'' 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  What  if  ye  do!  If  all  the  women  was  to  take  to  earnin* 
their  own  livin'  themselves,  where  at  all  would  the  next  generation  be.'' 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  There's  too  many  boys  now  who'll  grow  up  only  to  be 
like  their  fathers. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  But  in  this  country  it's  like  as  not  the  barefoot  boy 
in  the  gutter  will  be  President  itself  some  day. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Sometimes  —  do  you  know,  Mrs.  Keegan  —  I'm 
almost  glad  my  two  boys  died. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Mrs.  Barnes!!  But  here  am  I  almost  forgettin'  about 
the  lovely  funeral  and  you  not  bein'  able  to  be  in  it  at  all.  See  the  beautiful 
flowers  Mary  give  me,  and  they  right  off  her  mother's  coffin. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Let  me  have  one.  I've  got  to  make  some  carnations 
and  I've  almost  forgot  how.     (Mrs.  Keegan  hands  over  one  of  the  flowers. 


436  TTTF.  CTTTID  IX  Till'".  HOUSE 

which  Mrs.  Barnes  takfs  and  looks  at  intently  and  caresses.)      Whatever 
will  become  oi  them  two  poor  orplian  children? 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  For  Mary  it's  arranged  tiiat  a  rich  lady  will  take  her 
into  her  house. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  And  she  hardly  twelve.     She'll  be  worked  half  to  death. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Work!     Small  work  she  will  do.     It's  adopted  she  is. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Adopted!!      {She  stops  working  for  a  moment  and  then 

begins  again  rapidly.     She  stops  again,  then  she  forces  herself  to  work,  and  the 

next  few  speeches  betray  an  intensity  mixed  zvith  indecision.) 

Mrs.  Keegan  {not  heeding  her). —  And  sure  the  lady  has  a  house  as  big 
as  the  whole  of  Sullivan's  department  store  itself. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Who's  goin'  to  take  the  baby,  George.'' 
Mrs.  Keegan. —  Nobody,  I'm  afraid. 

Mrs.  Barnes  {more  excited). —  And  will  he  go  to  the  orphans'  home.' 
Mrs.  Keegan. —  It's  likely.     You  should  'a'  seen  the  grand  dress  the  lady 
wore,  and  she  comin'  to  the  funeral. 

Mrs.  Barnes  (thoughtfully,  sighing). —  The  woman  who  took  Mary  is 
rich,  you  say.' 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  She  is  that,  indeed!  Sure  she  keeps  six  hired  girls  in 
her  house. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  That  poor  baby.     {She  gets  up  and  sits  down.) 
Mrs.  Keegan. —  It's  too  bad  entirely!     If  I  didn't  have  five  of  my  own 
I'd  take  him  myself. 

Mrs.  Barnes  {despairingly,  half  to  herself). —  People  who  haven't  the 
money  to  raise  'em  right  ought  not  to  have  children. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Is  that  so,  now!  Sure  and  mine  will  be  as  well  raised 
as  yours,  an'  they  still  livin'  at  all.  I'll  be  goin'  now  and  leave  ye  to  say 
your  mean  things  to  yourself.     {She  goes  towards  the  door.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  It  was  of  myself  I  was  thinkin',  not  you,  Mrs.  Keegan. 
Mrs.  Keegan. —  Well,   I'm  willin'  to  believe  you.     But  I'll  be  goin' 
anyhow. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Don't,  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

(Mrs.  Keegan  comes  back  and  sits  down.) 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  If  it's  decent  talk  I'll  be  after  hearin'  it. 

(Mrs.  Barnes  comes  and  stands  beside  her.     She  is  nervous.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  If  —  for  —  I  —  I'm  going  to  take  that  baby. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Sure,  you're  not  in  earnest,  Mrs.  Barnes. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  You  can't  know  how  I  crave  —  it's  thirteen  years  since 

mine  went 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  A  baby's  an  awful  care. 
Mrs.  Barnes. —  As  if  I  minded  that. 


HOMER  HILDRETH  HOWARD  437 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Do  you  know  how  to  take  care  of  a  baby  at  all  —  your 
own  died  very  young  I've  heard. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Look  here,  Mrs,  Keegan  —  I've  never  told  this  to 
nobody.  'Twas  no  fault  of  mine  they  died  {she  half  breaks  off)  —  it's  hard 
to  be  married  to  a  drunkard  and  to  have  no  children. 

Mrs.  Keegan  {not  understanding). —  What's  that.'' 

Mrs.  Barnes  {half  turns  away). —  It's  true.  I'm  a  healthy  woman  — 
both  my  boys  was  weaklings  —  tuberculosis  —  and  they  died  —  both. 
They  was  bright  and  they  had  good  brains.  I  might  never  'a'  known  hovr 
it  was,  but  I  overheard  the  doctor  talking  to  my  Jim.  He  told  him  our 
boys  died  because  their  father  was  a  drunkard.  The  child  of  a  man  that 
drinks  is  apt  to  be  weak  and  the  consumption  germs  fasten  on  him. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Mrs.  Barnes! 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  He  told  Jim  again  and  again  that  the  fault  was  his  and  his 
alone.  I  can  hear  him  yet  sayin',  'Jim  Barnes,  you're  a  drunkard  —  you're 
not  fit  to  be  the  father  of  boys  and  girls.'  Jim's  never  found  out  that  I 
know,  but  that's  the  reason  we  never  had  no  more  children.  {She  goes  hack 
to  the  flowers.) 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  You're  a  brave  woman,  Mrs.  Barnes.  If  'twas  myself 
I'd  not  had  the  courage  to  do  it. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  It's  not  easy.  That  messenger  boy  to-day!  I  talked 
to  him  and  —  it  only  makes  me  lonesome  —  all  quivering  inside. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  And  will  himself  never  stop  drinking.^ 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  I  don't  know  —  he's  been  steady  now  for  a  long  time.. 
He  promised  the  doctor  —  he's  promised  me,  but  with  a  man  his  age  it's 
likely  the  curse  would  still  be  on  the  children. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  But  still  you're  thinkin'  of  takin'  this  one. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  That's  different.  Any  child  of  our  own  would  be  apt 
to  be  took  so,  but  an  adopted  one  won't  have  the  curse  you  see  —  he's  been 
sober  a  long  time  now,  and  we've  a  bit  laid  by  in  the  bank.  I'm  hesitatin' 
because  I  don't  know  if  we'll  have  money  enough  to  raise  him  rightly. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  And  how  much  might  that  take.^ 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  1  don't  know,  but  together  I  think  wc  could  do  it  — 
maybe  it  would  help  Jim  to  keep  steady.  {She  clenches  her  ha^ids  appeal- 
ingly.) 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  If  I  wanted  a  baby  like  you  do  I'd  have  it.  {She  gets 
up.) 

Mrs.  Barnes.— Oh,  I'll  work  with  every  bit  of  all  the  strength  God 
give  me  for  the  joy  of  a  child  in  my  house.  {A  pause.  Mrs.  Keegan  is 
uncertain  what  to  do.) 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  I'll  run  over  and  bring  the  baby  for  yc  to  sec. 


438  THK  CHILD  IN  THK  HOUSE 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  No,  no  —  yes,  do,  Mrs.  Kccgan,  do. 

(^Mrs.  Kf.egan  goes  out.  Mrs.  Barnes  walks  about  nervously  and  ex- 
citedly, but  she  looks  happy.     Mrs.  Kkegan  calls  back  from  the  left.) 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  I'll  be  right  back.     It's  just  around  the  corner. 

(Mrs.  Barnes  goes  to  the  door.,  faces  left.,  and  nods.  She  takes  up  the 
photograph  and  looks  at  it^  presses  it  to  her  breast  and  goes  to  the  table.  A 
pair  of  legs  pass  the  half  window,  right,  rear,  and  a  moment  later  a  man's 
form  is  seen  through  the  glass  of  the  rear  door.  He  stumbles  against  the 
masonry  and  turns  to  fumble  at  the  door.  lie  comes  in.  Mrs.  Barnes 
turns  as  he  enters.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Jim  ! !  {She  takes  his  arm  and  puts  htm  into  the  big 
chair.  He  is  not  drunk,  but  has  been  drinking,  and  his  mind  is  not  absolutely 
clear.)  Sit  here.  {She  stands  looking  at  him.  He  looks  up  at  her.)  Jim! 
Jim!  what's  the  matter.''  {She  makes  a  despairing  gesture.  Jim  grumbles 
inarticulately.) 

Jim. —  Wasn't  that  —  Mrs.  Keegan  I  saw  comin'  out  of  here.'' 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Yes,  Jim. 

Jim. —  What  was  she  after  .^ 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  She  was  coming  from  Sarah  Donnell's  burial  and  just 
stopped  in  to  tell  me  about  it. 

Jim. —  Sarah  left  two  kids  didn't  she.^ 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Yes  —  ain't  you  home  early,  Jim  ? 

Jim. —  No  goin'  back  to  work  to  the  shop. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Jim! 

Jim. —  Laid  off  —  dull  season  —  what's  the  use 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  And  I  believe  you've  been  drinkin'.  Don't  go  gettin' 
discouraged.  We've  got  a  bit  laid  up  for  just  such  a  rainy  day.  Go  into 
the  bedroom  and  rest  a  little  —  you're  tired.  You'll  feel  different  after 
you're  rested. 

{She  gets  him  into  the  bedroom,  up  right;  the  stage  is  bare  for  a  moment. 
Mrs.  Keegan,  red  and  out  of  breath,  hurries  in  with  the  baby,  and  a  moment 
later  Mrs.  Barnes  comes  back,  closing  the  door  after  her.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Oh,  Mrs.  Keegan.  {She  hurries  to  Mrs.  Keegan  and 
buries  her  face  for  a  moment  against  the  baby.) 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  I'm  all  out  of  breath,  I  hurried  that  much.  Isn't  he 
just  the  lovely  baby.'' 

(Mrs.  Barnes  takes  the  baby  and  fondles  it.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  You're  mine  —  mine  —  mine.  {She  holds  the  baby  in 
one  arm  and  stretches  the  other  to  Mrs.  Keegan,  who  strokes  it.) 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  To  think  you're  going  to  keep  him. 

Mrs.  Barnes  {gives  the  child  to  Mrs.  Keegan  and  stands  looking  down 


HOMER  HILDRETH  HOWARD  439 

M  him). —  Mrs.  Keegan,  Jim's  come  home  —  no  work  —  been  drinkin' 
too.     I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  That  makes  no  difference  at  all. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Don't  you  see  I  can't  do  it  all  alone  —  together  we 
could  just  about  manage. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Sure  you  earn  enough  yourself  to  support  the  child. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  That's  not  enough.  He  must  have  advantages  —  I 
can't  let  him  risk  havin'  a  life  without  nothin'  in  it  at  all. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  You're  a  foolish  woman 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  It  looked  easy  before  —  but  now  —  with  Jim  drinkin' — 
I  don't  know.  {Pause.)  He  loved  our  boys.  {She  meditates.)  If  he 
can't  resist  there  will  be  no  child  in  the  house.  {She  stoops  down  and  takes 
the  child  again.) 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  You  mean  that  surely? 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  That  I  do.  I'll  have  no  child  with  a  drunken  man  in 
the  house.     What  way  would  that  be  to  raise  a  boy .'' 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Oh,  yes,  but  others  does  it. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  They're  wrong.  I  can't  —  I  won't.  It's  a  duty  I 
owe  the  child. 

Mrs.  Keegan.  —  And  will  he  have  to  go,  maybe,  to  the  orphans'  home."* 

Mrs.  Barnes  {bows  her  face  over  the  child's). —  It  will  be,  perhaps,  better 
so.     {Silence.) 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  And  you  so  lonely. 

Mrs.  Barnes.  — Don't — don't — you  mustn't — can't  you  see  how  I  want 

to  have {A  noise  of  something  dropping  on  the  floor  in  the  adjoining  room 

is  heard.  Mrs.  Barnes  stops,  takes  the  child  and  holds  it  close  for  a  moment, 
then  she  kisses  it  and  motions  Mrs.  Keegan  to  the  door.)  Go  now  —  I  must 
talk  to  Jim  —  he's  coming  out  —  go,  go.  Come  back  after  a  little  —  I  hope 
it  can  be  so  —  oh,  I  do  hope  it. 

(Jim  opens  the  door  and  comes  in.) 

Mrs.  Keegan  {at  the  door). —  In  a  little  while  I'll  bring  back  the  baby. 

Jim. —  Baby!     (Mrs.  Keegan  goes.)     What's  she  doin'  here  again? 

Mrs.  Barnes  {sits  at  the  table,  head  i?i  hands). —  Oh,  Jim,  Jim! 

Jim. —  What  baby  was  she  talkin'  about?  {Silence.)  There  was  a 
baby  in  the  street  car  I  come  home  on  —  right  beside  me.  I  talked  to  her, 
and  she  —  she  had  a  apple  and  she  give  it  to  me  —  and  I  give  it  back. 
(Mrs.  Barnes  sits  up  and  watches  him.)  It  fell  on  the  floor, —  there  was 
another  man  —  but  I  —  I  give  it  back  to  her.  I  —  {He  turns  to  look  at  the 
woman  and  asks  very  soberly.)     Mary,  why  ain't  wc  no  child  in  our  house? 

Mrs.  Barnes  {shaking  her  head). —  You  ask  that,  Jim  Barnes. 

Jim  {turning  away  meditatively). —  A  baby  —  its  hands  was  fat. 


440  THi:  CMlll.n  IN  TIIF.  TTOUSE 

Afrj.  Barnrs. —  Is  it  nic  tluit  dtin't  want  a  child? 
Jim  {to  himsriP). —  It  was  a  cuto  one. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  If  you  was  the  man   I  thought  you  when   I   married 
you 


Jim. —  What!     So  its  me's  to  blame,  is  it? 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  A  man  that  spends  liis  mone)'  for  drink  can't  raise  'a* 
family. 

Jim. —  I  work  and  I  get  good  pay  for  it.  I  hain't  touched  a  drop  for 
a  long  time. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  But  Jim,  you've  been  drinkin'  to-day  —  to-day  of  all 
times.     If  you  only  knew  — 

Jim. —  Well,  well,  it  was  only  a  drop.  I  was  fair  discouraged  at  being 
laid  off.  Now  it  was  only  a  drop.  If  you  don't  believe  it  —  {he  gets  up  and 
takes  money  from  his  pocket)  count  and  see  —  there's  my  pay. 

(Mrs.  Barnes  takes  the  money  and  puts  it  in  a  purse  in  the  cupboard. 
He  zvatches  her.) 

Jim. —  I  keep  thinkin'  of  that  baby  in  the  street  car,  and  we  buried  ours. 

Airs.  Barnes. —  Perhaps  and  you  and  wasn't  a  drunkard  we  needn't  'a* 
done  it.     {Pause.)     But  no  child  of  ours  could  have  education. 

Jim. —  Hum.     Why  should  it  have  learnin'? 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  No  child  of  mine  is  going  to  be  without  the  good  things 
of  the  world.     If  our  own  had  'a'  lived,  I  wonder,  could  we 'a' raised 'em  right? 

Jim. —  I'd  worked  like  a  trooper.  It's  a  child  we  need  in  this  house. 
I'd  'a'  kept  sober,  too. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Are  you  sure  of  it,  Jim?  are  you? 

Jim. —  Sure  I  am.  {Changing  the  subject.)  Ain't  there  goin'  to  be  no 
supper? 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Yes,  Jim  —  it's  early  still  —  I'll  put  on  the  kettle  — 
I've  made  a  stew  and  there's  bread  and  a  cup  of  tea.  {She  busies  herself 
with  the  fire,  the  kettle  and  the  table  during  the  following.) 

Jim. —  Mary  (he  gets  up  and  staggers  toward  the  stove),  —  Mary,  it's  your 
high  and  mighty  ideas  have  caused  us  trouble  always. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Oh,  no,  Jim. 

{He  gets  too  near  the  stove  and  burns  his  hand.     He  cries  out  plaintively.) 

Jim. —  I've  burned  me. 

{She  comes  to  him  and  makes  him  sit  in  the  big  chair  and  looks  at  the  hand.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  It's  not  hurt,  Jim. 

Jim. —  It's  burned,  I  tell  you. 

Mrs,  Barnes. —  I'll  bind  it  up.  {She  gets  old  linen  from  the  drawer  in 
the  cupboard  and  binds  up  the  hand.     Jim  watches  her.) 

Jim. —  You're  a  good  girl  —  but  your  ideas  was  always   too   big  for 


HOMER  HILDRETH  HOWARD  441 

yer  —  always.     {She  is  silent.)     And  you  married  me  —  there  was  others  — 
but  it  was  me. 

(Mrs.  Barnes  looks  at  him  and  then  away.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  I  loved  you,  Jim. 

Jim. —  Agin  yer  folks  you  married  me. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  It's  hard,  Jim.  (Silence.)  But  you're  a  drunkard, 
and  it's  because  of  that  I  had  to  give  up  my  children. 

Jim. —  Now,  Mary,  I  ain't  touched  a  drop  for  ever  so  long  —  it's  just 
to-day  because  I  was  knocked  out  losing  my  job. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  If  I  could  only  be  sure.  With  your  money  in  the  saloon- 
keeper's cash  box  —  what  way  would  we  have  raised  our  boys 

Jim. —  Sometimes  you  act  as  if  you  was  glad  —  your  fool  ideas  —  mother 
classes,  settlement  house,  bein'  clean  —  bah — that's  why  they  died,  like 
as  not. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Don't,  Jim  —  I  found  out  things  you  don't  know  about 
I  know.  I  don't  want  ever  to  say  it  —  but  —  don't,  don't  accuse  me  that 
the  boys'  death. 

Jim. —  Well,  I  ain't  glad  they  died.  A  man  wants  a  child  in  his 
house.     (Silence.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Jim,  it  would  all  have  been  right  if  you'd  stopped 
drinkin'. 

Jim. —  Mary,  it's  the  stuff  won't  let  me  alone.  If  they'd  'a'  lived 
maybe  I'd  'a'  done  different. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  I  wonder.     (She  watches  him,  undecided.) 

Jim. —  Now,  if  we  just  had  one  like  was  in  the  street  car 

(Mrs.  Barnes  goes  to  him  and  puts  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Look  here,  Jim.  (She  hesitates.)  I'd  like  to  adopt 
Sarah  Donnell's  baby. 

Jim  (pleased). —  A  baby  —  us  with  a  baby. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  You  would  like  that.'' 

Jim. —  I  would That's  what  Mrs.  Keegan 

Mrs.  Barnes  (nods). —  I'd  be  so  happy,  Jim 

Jim. —  A  baby 

Mrs.  Barnes  (earnestly,  trying  to  impress  him). —  If  you  was  a  steady 
man,  I'd  do  it. 

Jim. —  It's  steady  I'll  be.  (He  gets  up.)  I'll  hunt  a  new  jobjyet  to-day  — 
till  I  find  one.  You'll  see.  Never  a  drop  will  I  drink,  except  it  be  a 
taste  of  the  tea  from  your  pot.  I'll  be  a  man  for  that  baby  and  for  you, 
Mary. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Oh,  Jim,  Jim.     If  you  will  do  it.     (She  smiles  and  brushes 
away  a  tear.) 


442  niK  cm  1,1^  IN  THE  HOUSE 

Jim. —  1  will  that.     I'll  go  now 

Mrs.  Bar  fits. —  Do  not  go,  we'll  have  our  tea  and  can  be  thinking 
whicli  is  best  to  be  done.  Oh,  Jim,  you  make  me  that  happy.  Soon,  now, 
Mrs.  Keegan  will  come  back  with  the  baby. 

Jim. —  Our  baby.'' 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Yes,  Jim,  yes  —  our  baby.  We  will  take  it,  won't  -wq} 
{A  momc-nt^s  silence.)     Won't  we  be  happy  now! 

Jim. —  W^e  will  that,  Mary.     I  must  find  work  right  off. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  If  only  you  keep  straight,  Jim.  It's  been  a  long  time 
now,  but  to-day  makes  me  wonder.  {Impulsively.)  You  will,  won't  you  — 
won't  you.^ 

Jim. —  Sure  I  will.     Of  course. 

(Mrs.  Barnes  has  stopped  and  is  watching  him.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  It's  a  responsibility  to  raise  a  boy  right,  Jim. 

Jim. —  I  know  you'll  be  his  good  mother  now. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  But  it's  just  as  much  what  sort  of  a  father  he  has  that 
counts. 

Jim. —  Yes,  yes,  Mary.     Of  course. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  But  don't  you  see,  Jim,  it  wouldn't  do  ever  to  let  him 
see  you  come  home  drunk  ^  Besides  it  will  take  all  our  money  —  all  of  it  — 
to  raise  him. 

Jim. —  Well,  I  want  him,  too,  Mary  —  of  course  I  do. 

{Her  doubt  grows.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Well,  let's  eat  our  supper.  {She  goes  to  the  cupboard, 
while  Jim  goes  to  the  small  table  a7id  washes  his  hands  in  the  basin.  Mrs. 
Barnes  opens  the  cupboard  and  takes  out  a  loaf  of  bread.  She  starts  for  the 
table,  looks  at  Jim  and  then  at  the  bread,  hesitates,  and  makes  a  decision.) 
Early  in  the  morning,  Jim,  you'll  need  to  look  for  a  job. 

Jim. —  Yes,  of  course. 

{She  puts  the  bread  into  the  cupboard  and  takes  some  money  from  a  pocket- 
book.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Oh,  Jim,  there's  no  bread  in  the  house.  Take  this 
{she  gives  him  money)  and  get  a  loaf  at  Peele's.  Just  beside  the  saloon  — 
just  the  other  side  of  the  saloon  —  you  know. 

Jim. —  It's  a  loaf  of  bread  you  need,  is  it.^ 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  It's  bread  I'm  sending  you  after.  You  needn't  be  gone 
but  a  moment.     To  the  grocery  for  bread,  Jim. 

{He  goes  out  the  door,  rear.  She  closes  it  and  presses  her  face  against 
the  glass  to  see  which  way  he  goes,  then  comes  back  into  the  room  and  begins 
work  with  the  flowers,  but  is  too  nervous  to  keep  at  it.  She  smiles  and  looks 
worried  in  turn.     She  goes  to  the  door,  arranges  a  dish,  looks  at  the  tea,  etc. 


HOMER  HILDRETH  HOWARD  443 

Mrs.  Keegan  and  the  baby  appear  at  the  door^  and  when  Mrs.  Barnes 
hears  the  rattle  of  the  door  knob  she  cries  out  gladly.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  Jim!  !  {She  iMrnj  aj  Mrs.  Keegan  com^j- tn.)  Oh,  it's 
you. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Yes,  I  saw  that  man  of  yours  goin'  out  so  I  thought 
I'd  run  in  now.     Are  you  goin'  to  have  the  baby  sure.'' 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  He  wants  him  as  much  as  ever  I  do,  but  the  liquor  is 
strong  with  him  yet,  I'm  afraid. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Well,  the  child  is  just  what  he's  needin'  to  keep  him 
sober. 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  I'll  take  no  such  risks  now.  Jim's  to  decide.  I  sent 
him  for  bread.  It's  to  test  him.  If  he  comes  back  without  the  bread  you're 
to  go  away  with  the  baby.     {She  caresses  the  baby,  looking  very  happy.) 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  If  he  spends  the  money  for  drink ^ 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  That's  it.  That's  it.  You  must  promise  —  prom- 
ise   

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Well,  all  right. 

{Silence.  Mrs.  Barnes  walks  up  and  down  pausing  to  look  at  the  baby. 
She  can  hardly  keep  her  hands  off  it.) 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Do  you  think .'' 

(Mrs.  Barnes  motions  for  silence  —  pause.) 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  If  only  Jim  would  come  back .     (Mrs.  Barnes 

walks  again.     She  stops  in  front  of  the  child,  facing  the  rear.     Impulsively  she 

kneels  beside  the  baby  and  caresses  it.)  Mine!     Mine!     Mine!     Dear 

(Jim  has  appeared  at  the  glass  in  the  door.  He  fumbles  for  the  door-knob 
unsteadily.     Mrs.  Barnes  sees  him  and  screams.)     Jim! 

(Mrs.  Keegan  gets  up  and  looks  toward  the  rear.) 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Poor  dear  —  a  shame  it  is. 

(Jim  has  opened  the  door  and  has  staggered  into  the  room.) 

Jim. —  That's  —  why  —  you  old  Mrs.  Keegan 

Mrs.  Barnes  {leading  him  to  a  chair). —  You  see,  Mrs.  Keegan,  why  it's 
impossible  now  —  over.  (Jim  takes  out  a  small  whiskey  bottle  and  makes 
as  if  to  drink  from  it.  Mrs.  Barnes  gets  it  from  him  and  puts  it  on  the  table. 
Jim  laughs  hysterically.)     Jim,  why  did  you  do  it  —  why  —  why.'' 

Jim. —  You  —  g  —  give  me  the  money 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  You  ought  to  he  ashamed  of  yourself,  Jim  Barnes. 

(Jim  looks  at  her  and  tries  to  get  up.) 

Jim. —  You  put  down  our  —  new  baby  —  I  say 

Mrs.  Keegan  {to  Mrs.  Barnes). —  You're  going  to  keep  it,  Mrs. .? 

Jim. —  Keep  it !     Of  —  of  course 

Mrs.  Barnes. —  No,  Jim.     Wc  do  not  keep  it 


444  TlIE  CHILD   IN    11  IK  HOUSE 

(Jim  gfts  up  and  confronts  her.) 

Jim. —  \Vc  do  —  I  —  1  say  —  wc  —  wc  do 


Mrs.  Barnes. —  Jim,  if  you  knew  —  how  much  I  want  it 

Jim. —  Never  you  m — mind,  Mary.  I  won't  let  her  t — take  it 
away. 

Mrs.  Keegan. —  Why  don't  you 

Mrs.  Barnc-s. —  No,  no.  {She  motions  to  Mrs.  Keegan  to  go.  Mrs. 
Keeg.an  starts  for  the  door.  Jim  tries  to  stop  her.  Mrs.  Barnes  gets 
between  them.  He  seizes  her  arm  and  wrenches  it.  She  escapes  and  gets  him  by  the 
arm  and  into  the  chair  again.  She  goes  to  Mrs.  Keegan  at  the  door  and 
kisses  the  child.  She  has  almost  lost  control  of  herself.)  I  did  so  want  you. 
(Jim  gets  up  and  takes  a  step  forward.  Mrs.  Barnes  is  standing  at  the  table 
as  Jim  sinks  back  into  the  chair.)  You've  made  your  choice,  Jim.  {She 
lifts  the  bottle  from  the  table,  bitterly.)  It's  killed  this  one  as  it  killed  my 
other  two.  {She  drops  the  bottle  onto  the  table.  Jim  watches  her  stupidly 
as  Mrs.  Keegan  goes  out  and  up  the  steps.  Mrs.  Barnes  sits  at  the  table., 
her  head  buried  in  her  hands,  as  the  curtain  falls  very  slowly.) 


3  1205  02235  1033 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA        001  389  996        8 


